even 


Maij  Robert;  Rinehart 


arp  Eoberts  Eine&att 


THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS. 
THE  AFTER  HOUSE.     Illustrated. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 


•  ^CheYfreet 


Mary  Roberff  Rinchart 


Hcmghton  Mifflin  Company 
I>9/tbn  and  New  York 


COPYRIGHT,    1914,   BY  THE   CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,    1914,    BY    MARY    ROBERTS    RINEHART 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  September  igij 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 


2087018 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

CHAPTER  I 

T  I  iHE  old  stucco  house  sat  back  in  a  garden,  or 
JL  what  must  once  have  been  a  garden,  when 
that  part  of  the  Austrian  city  had  been  a  royal 
game  preserve.  Tradition  had  it  that  the  Em 
press  Maria  Theresa  had  used  the  building  as  a 
hunting-lodge,  and  undoubtedly  there  was  some 
thing  royal  in  the  proportions  of  the  salon.  With 
all  the  candles  lighted  in  the  great  glass  chande 
lier,  and  no  sidelights,  so  that  the  broken  panel 
ing  was  mercifully  obscured  by  gloom,  it  was 
easy  to  believe  that  the  great  empress  herself 
had  sat  in  one  of  the  tall  old  chairs  and  listened 
to  anecdotes  of  questionable  character;  even, 
if  tradition  may  be  believed,  related  not  a  few 
herself. 

The  chandelier  was  not  lighted  on  this  rainy 
November  night.  Outside  in  the  garden  the  trees 
creaked  and  bent  before  the  wind,  and  the  heavy 
barred  gate,  left  open  by  the  last  comer,  a  piano 
student  named  Scatchett  and  dubbed  "Scatch" 
—  the  gate  slammed  to  and  fro  monotonously, 
giving  now  and  then  just  enough  pause  for  a  hope 

3 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

that  it  had  latched  itself,  a  hope  that  was  always 
destroyed  by  the  next  gust. 

One  candle  burned  in  the  salon.  Originally 
lighted  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  Miss  Scatchett 
to  locate  the  score  of  a  Tschaikowsky  concerto,  it 
had  been  moved  to  the  small  center  table,  and 
had  served  to  give  light  if  not  festivity  to  the 
afternoon  coffee  and  cakes.  It  still  burned,  a 
gnarled  and  stubby  fragment,  in  its  china  holder; 
round  it  the  disorder  of  the  recent  refreshment, 
three  empty  cups,  a  half  of  a  small  cake,  a  crum 
pled  napkin  or  two,  —  there  were  never  enough  to 
go  round, —  and  on  the  floor  the  score  of  the  con 
certo,  clearly  abandoned  for  the  things  of  the  flesh. 

The  room  was  cold.  The  long  casement  win 
dows  creaked  in  time  with  the  slamming  of  the 
gate  and  the  candle  flickered  in  response  to  a 
draft  under  the  doors.  The  concerto  flapped  and 
slid  along  the  uneven  old  floor.  At  the  sound  a 
girl  in  a  black  dress,  who  had  been  huddled  near 
the  tile  stove,  rose  impatiently  and  picked  it  up. 
There  was  no  impatience,  however,  in  the  way 
she  handled  the  loose  sheets.  She  put  them  to 
gether  carefully,  almost  tenderly,  and  placed 
them  on  the  top  of  the  grand  piano,  anchoring 
them  against  the  draft  with  a  china  dog  from  the 
stand. 

The  room  was  very  bare  —  a  long  mirror  be 
tween  two  of  the  windows,  half  a  dozen  chairs,  a 

4 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

stand  or  two,  and  in  a  corner  the  grand  piano. 
There  were  no  rugs  —  the  bare  floor  stretched 
bleakly  into  dim  corners  and  was  lost.  The  crys 
tal  pendants  of  the  great  chandelier  looked  like 
stalactites  in  a  cave.  The  girl  touched  the  piano 
keys;  they  were  ice  under  her  fingers. 

In  a  sort  of  desperation  she  drew  a  chair  under 
neath  the  chandelier,  and  armed  with  a  handful 
of  matches  proceeded  to  the  unheard-of  extrava 
gance  of  lighting  it,  not  here  and  there,  but 
throughout  as  high  as  she  could  reach,  standing 
perilously  on  her  tiptoes  on  the  chair. 

The  resulting  illumination  revealed  a  number 
of  things :  It  showed  that  the  girl  was  young  and 
comely  and  that  she  had  been  crying;  it  revealed 
the  fact  that  the  coal-pail  was  empty  and  the 
stove  almost  so;  it  let  the  initiated  into  the  se 
cret  that  the  blackish  fluid  in  the  cups  had  been 
made  with  coffee  extract  that  had  been  made  of 
Heaven  knows  what;  and  it  revealed  in  the  cav 
ernous  corner  near  the  door  a  number  of  trunks. 
The  girl,  having  lighted  all  the  candles,  stood 
on  the  chair  and  looked  at  the  trunks.  She  was 
very  young,  very  tragic,  very  feminine.  A  door 
slammed  down  the  hall  and  she  stopped  crying 
instantly.  Diving  into  one  of  those  receptacles 
that  are  a  part  of  the  mystery  of  the  sex,  she 
rubbed  a  chamois  skin  over  her  nose  and  her  red 
dened  eyelids. 

5 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  situation  was  a  difficult  one,  but  hardly, 
except  to  Harmony  Wells,  a  tragedy.  Few  of  us 
are  so  constructed  that  the  Suite  "Arlesienne" 
will  serve  as  a  luncheon,  or  a  faulty  fingering  of 
the  Waldweben  from  "Siegfried"  will  keep  us 
awake  at  night.  Harmony  had  lain  awake  more 
than  once  over  some  crime  against  her  namesake, 
had  paid  penances  of  early  rising  and  two  hours 
of  scales  before  breakfast,  working  with  stiffened 
fingers  in  her  cold  little  room  where  there  was  no 
room  for  a  stove,  and  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed 
in  a  faded  kimono  where  once  pink  butterflies 
sported  in  a  once  blue-silk  garden.  Then  coffee, 
rolls,  and  honey,  and  back  again  to  work,  with 
little  Scatchett  at  the  piano  in  the  salon  beyond 
the  partition,  wearing  a  sweater  and  fingerless 
gloves  and  holding  a  hot-water  bottle  on  her 
knees.  Three  rooms  beyond,  down  the  stone  hall, 
the  Big  Soprano,  doing  Madama  Butterfly  in  bad 
German,  helped  to  make  an  encircling  wall  of 
sound  in  the  center  of  which  one  might  practice 
peacefully. 

Only  the  Portier  objected.  Morning  after 
morning,  crawling  out  at  dawn  from  under  his 
featherbed  in  the  lodge  below,  he  opened  his  door 
and  listened  to  Harmony  doing  penance  above; 
and  morning  after  morning  he  shook  his  fist  up 
the  stone  staircase. 

"Gott  im  Himmel!"  he  would  say  to  his  wife, 

6 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

fumbling  with  the  knot  of  his  mustache  bandage, 
"what  a  people,  these  Americans !  So  much  noise 
and  no  music!" 

"And  mad!"  grumbled  his  wife.  "All  the  day 
coal,  coal  to  heat;  and  at  night  the  windows  open ! 
Karl  the  milkboy  has  seen  it." 

And  now  the  little  colony  was  breaking  up. 
The  Big  Soprano  was  going  back  to  her  church, 
grand  opera  having  found  no  place  for  her.  Scatch 
was  returning  to  be  married,  her  heart  full,  in 
deed,  of  music,  but  her  head  much  occupied  with 
the  trousseau  in  her  trunks.  The  Harrnar  sisters 
had  gone  two  weeks  before,  their  funds  having 
given  out.  Indeed,  funds  were  very  low  with  all 
of  them.  The  " 'Elite  zum  speisen"  of  the  little 
German  maid  often  called  them  to  nothing  more 
opulent  than  a  stew  of  beef  and  carrots. 

Not  that  all  had  been  sordid.  The  butter  had 
gone  for  opera  tickets,  and  never  was  butter  bet 
ter  spent.  And  there  had  been  gala  days  —  a 
fruitcake  from  Harmony's  mother,  a  venison 
steak  at  Christmas,  and  once  or  twice  on  birth 
days  real  American  ice  cream  at  a  fabulous  price 
and  worth  it.  Harmony  had  bought  a  suit,  too,  a 
marvel  of  tailoring  and  cheapness,  and  a  willow 
plume  that  would  have  cost  treble  its  price  in 
New  York.  Oh,  yes,  gala  days,  indeed,  to  offset 
the  butter  and  the  rainy  winter  and  the  faltering 
technic  and  the  anxiety  about  money.  For  that 

7 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

they  all  had  always,  the  old  tragedy  of  the  Amer 
ican  music  student  abroad  —  the  expensive  les 
sons,  the  delays  in  getting  to  the  Master  himself, 
the  contention  against  German  greed  or  Austrian 
whim.  And  always  back  in  one's  mind  the  home 
people,  to  whom  one  dares  not  confess  that  after 
nine  months  of  waiting,  or  a  year,  one  has  seen 
the  Master  once  or  not  at  all. 

Or  —  and  one  of  the  Harmar  girls  had  carried 
back  this  sear  in  her  soul  —  to  go  back  rejected, 
as  one  of  the  unfit,  on  whom  even  the  under- 
masters  refuse  to  waste  time.  That  has  been, 
and  often.  Harmony  stood  on  her  chair  and 
looked  at  the  trunks.  The  Big  Soprano  wras  call 
ing  down  the  hall. 

"Scatch,"  she  was  shouting  briskly,  "where  is 
my  hairbrush?" 

A  wail  from  Scatch  from  behind  a  closed  door. 

"I  packed  it,  Heaven  knows  where!  Do  you 
need  it  really?  Have  n't  you  got  a  comb?" 

"As  soon  as  I  get  something  on  I'm  coming  to 
shake  you.  Half  the  teeth  are  out  of  my  comb. 
I  don't  believe  you  packed  it.  Look  under  the 
bed." 

Silence  for  a  moment,  while  Scatch  obeyed  for 
the  next  moment. 

"Here  it  is,"  she  called  joyously.  "And  here 
are  Harmony's  bedroom  slippers.  Oh,  Harry,  I 
found  your  slippers!" 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  girl  got  down  off  the  chair  and  went  to  the 
door. 

"Thanks,  dear,"  she  said.  "I'm  coming  in  a 
minute." 

She  went  to  the  mirror,  which  had  reflected  the 
Empress  Maria  Theresa,  and  looked  at  her  eyes. 
They  were  still  red.  Perhaps  if  she  opened  the 
window  the  air  would  brighten  them. 

Armed  with  the  brush,  little  Scatchett  hurried 
to  the  Big  Soprano's  room.  She  flung  the  brush 
on  the  bed  and  closed  the  door.  She  held  her 
shabby  wrapper  about  her  and  listened  just  in 
side  the  door.  There  were  no  footsteps,  only  the 
banging  of  the  gate  in  the  wind.  She  turned  to 
the  Big  Soprano,  heating  a  curling  iron  in  the 
flame  of  a  candle,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Look!"  she  said.  "Under  my  bed!  Ten 
kronen!" 

Without  a  word  the  Big  Soprano  put  down  her 
curling-iron,  and  ponderously  getting  down  on 
her  knees,  candle  in  hand,  inspected  the  dusty 
floor  beneath  her  bed.  It  revealed  nothing  but  a 
cigarette,  on  which  she  pounced.  Still  squatting, 
she  lighted  the  cigarette  in  the  candle  flame  and 
sat  solemnly  puffing  it. 

"The  first  for  a  week,"  she  said.  "Pull  out  the 
wardrobe,  Scatch;  there  may  be  another  relic  of 
my  prosperous  days." 

9 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

But  little  Scatchett  was  not  interested  in  Aus 
trian  cigarettes  with  a  government  monopoly 
and  gilt  tips.  She  was  looking  at  the  ten-kronen 
piece. 

"Where  is  the  other?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"In  my  powder-box." 

Little  Scatchett  lifted  the  china  lid  and  dropped 
in  the  tiny  gold-piece. 

"Every  little  bit,"  she  said  flippantly,  but  still 
in  a  whisper,  "added  to  what  she's  got,  makes 
just  a  little  bit  more." 

"Have  you  thought  of  a  place  to  leave  it  for 
her?  If  Rosa  finds  it,  it's  good-bye.  Heaven 
knows  it  was  hard  enough  to  get  together,  with 
out  losing  it  now.  I'll  have  to  jump  overboard 
and  swim  ashore  at  New  York  —  I  have  n't  even 
a  dollar  for  tips." 

"New  York!  "said  little  Scatchett  with  her  eyes 
glowing.  "  If  Henry  meets  me  I  know  he  will  - 

"Tut!"  The  Big  Soprano  got  up  cumbrously 
and  stood  looking  down.  "You  and  your  Henry! 
Scatchy,  child,  has  it  occurred  to  your  maudlin 
young  mind  that  money  is  n't  the  only  thing  Har 
mony  is  going  to  need?  She's  going  to  be  alone 
—  and  this  is  a  bad  town  to  be  alone  in.  And 
she  is  not  like  us.  You  have  your  Henry.  I  'm  a 
beefy  person  who  has  a  stomach,  and  I  'm  thank 
ful  for  it.  But  she  is  different  —  she 's  got  the 

10 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

thing  that  you  are  as  well  without,  the  thing  that 
my  lack  of  is  sending  me  back  to  fight  in  a  church 
choir  instead  of  grand  opera." 

Little  Scatchett  was  rather  puzzled. 

"Temperament?"  she  asked.  It  had  always 
been  accepted  in  the  little  colony  that  Harmony 
was  a  real  musician,  a  star  in  their  lesser  firma 
ment. 

The  Big  Soprano  sniffed. 

"  If  you  like,"  she  said.  "  Soul  is  a  better  word. 
Only  the  rich  ought  to  have  souls,  Scatchy,  dear." 

This  was  over  the  younger  girl's  head,  and 
anyhow  Harmony  was  coming  down  the  hall. 

"I  thought,  under  her  pillow,"  she  whispered. 
" She '11  find  it—  " 

*  Harmony  came  in,  to  find  the  Big  Soprano 
heating  a  curler  in  the  flame  of  a  candle. 


CHAPTER  II 

HARMONY  found  the  little  hoard  under  her 
pillow  that  night  when,  having  seen  Scatch 
and  the  Big  Soprano  off  at  the  station,  she  had 
come  back  alone  to  the  apartment  on  the  Sieben- 
sternstrasse.  The  trunks  were  gone  now.  Only 
the  concerto  score  still  lay  on  the  piano,  where 
little  Scatchett,  mentally  on  the  dock  at  New 
York  with  Henry's  arms  about  her,  had  forgot 
ten  it.  The  candles  in  the  great  chandelier  had 
died  .in  tears  of  paraffin  that  spattered  the  floor 
beneath.  One  or  two  of  the  sockets  were  still 
smoking,  and  the  sharp  odor  of  burning  wick- 
ends  filled  the  room. 

Harmony  had  come  through  the  garden 
quickly.  She  had  had  an  uneasy  sense  of  being 
followed,  and  the  garden,  with  its  moaning  trees 
and  slamming  gate  and  the  great  dark  house  in 
the  background,  was  a  forbidding  place  at  best. 
She  had  rung  the  bell  and  had  stood,  her  back 
against  the  door,  eyes  and  ears  strained  in  the 
darkness.  She  had  fancied  that  a  figure  had 
stopped  outside  the  gate  and  stood  looking  in, 
but  the  next  moment  the  gate  had  swung  to  and 
the  Portier  was  fumbling  at  the  lock  behind  her. 

12 


The  Portier  had  put  on  his  trousers  over  his 
night  garments,  and  his  mustache  bandage  gave 
him  a  sinister  expression,  rather  augmented  when 
he  smiled  at  her.  The  Portier  liked  Harmony  in 
spite  of  the  early  morning  practicing;  she  looked 
like  a  singer  at  the  opera  for  whom  he  cherished 
a  hidden  attachment.  The  singer  had  never  seen 
him,  but  it  was  for  her  he  wore  the  mustache 
bandage.  Perhaps  some  day  —  hopefully !  One 
must  be  ready! 

The  Portier  gave  Harmony  a  tiny  candle 
and  Harmony  held  out  his  tip,  the  five  Hellers 
of  custom.  But  the  Portier  was  keen,  and 
Rosa  was  a  niece  of  his  wife  and  talked  more 
than  she  should.  He  refused  the  tip  with  a 
gesture. 

"Bitte,  Fraulein!"  he  said  through  the  band 
age.  "It  is  for  me  a  pleasure  to  admit  you. 
And  perhaps  if  the  Fraulein  is  cold,  a  basin  of 
soup." 

The  Portier  was  not  pleasant  to  the  eye. 
His  nightshirt  was  open  over  his  hairy  chest  and 
his  feet  were  bare  to  the  stone  floor.  But  to 
Harmony  that  lonely  night  he  was  beautiful. 
She  tried  to  speak  and  could  not  but  she  held 
out  her  hand  in  impulsive  gratitude,  and  the 
Portier  in  his  best  manner  bent  over  and  kissed 
it.  As  she  reached  the  curve  of  the  stone  stair 
case,  carrying  her  tiny  candle,  the  Portier  was 

13 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

following  her  with  his  eyes.  She  was  very  like 
the  girl  of  the  opera. 

The  clang  of  the  door  below  and  the  rattle 
of  the  chain  were  comforting  to  Harmony's 
ears.  From  the  safety  of  the  darkened  salon 
she  peered  out  into  the  garden  again,  but  no 
skulking  figure  detached  itself  from  the  shadows, 
and  the  gate  remained,  for  a  marvel,  closed. 

It  was  when  —  having  picked  up  her  violin 
in  a  very  passion  of  loneliness,  only  to  put  it 
down  when  she  found  that  the  familiar  sounds 
echoed  and  reechoed  sadly  through  the  silent 
rooms — it  was  when  she  was  ready  for  bed  that 
she  found  the  money  under  her  pillow,  and  a 
scrawl  from  Scatchy,  a  breathless,  apologetic 
scrawl,  little  Scatchett  having  adored  her  from 
afar,  as  the  plain  adore  the  beautiful,  the  me 
diocre  the  gifted :  — 

"DEAREST  HARRY  [here  a  large  blot,  Scatchy 
being  addicted  to  blots]:  I  am  honestly  fright 
ened  when  I  think  what  we  are  doing.  But, 
oh,  my  dear,  if  you  could  know  how  pleased 
we  are  with  ourselves  you'd  not  deny  us  this 
pleasure.  Harry,  you  have  it  —  the  real  thing, 
you  know,  whatever  it  is  —  and  I  have  n't. 
None  of  the  rest  of  us  had.  And  you  must 
stay.  To  go  now,  just  when  lessons  would 
mean  everything  —  well,  you  must  not  think 

14 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

of  it.  We  have  scads  to  take  us  home,  more 
than  we  need,  both  of  us,  or  at  least  —  well, 
I  'm  lying,  and  you  know  it.  But  we  have 
enough,  by  being  careful,  and  we  want  you  to 
have  this.  It  isn't  much,  but  it  may  help. 
Ten  Kronen  of  it  I  found  to-night  under  my 
bed,  and  it  may  be  yours  anyhow. 

"Sadie  [Sadie  was  the  Big  Soprano]  keeps 
saying  awful  things  about  our  leaving  you  here, 
and  she  has  rather  terrified  me.  You  are  so 
beautiful,  Harry,  —  although  you  never  let  us 
tell  you  so.  And  Sadie  says  you  have  a  soul 
and  I  have  n't,  and  that  souls  are  deadly  things 
to  have.  I  feel  to-night  that  in  urging  you  to 
stay  I  am  taking  the  burden  of  your  soul  on 
me!  Do  be  careful,  Harry.  If  any  one  you  do 
not  know  speaks  to  you  call  a  policeman.  And 
be  sure  you  get  into  a  respectable  pension. 
There  are  queer  ones. 

"Sadie  and  I  think  that  if  you  can  get  along 
on  what  you  get  from  home  —  you  said  your 
mother  would  get  insurance,  did  n't  you?  - 
and  will  keep  this  as  a  sort  of  fund  to  take  you 
home  if  anything  should  go  wrong — .  But 
perhaps  we  are  needlessly  worried.  In  any  case, 
of  course  it  5s  a  loan,  and  you  can  preserve  that 
magnificent  independence  of  yours  by  sending 
it  back  when  you  get  to  work  to  make  your 
fortune.  And  if  you  are  doubtful  at  all,  just 

15 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

remember  that  hopeful  little  mother  of  yours 
who  sent  you  over  to  get  what  she  had  never 
been  able  to  have  for  herself,  and  who  planned 
this  for  you  from  the  time  you  were  a  kiddy  and 
she  named  you  Harmony. 

"I  'm  not  saying  good-bye.  I  can't. 

"SCATCH." 

That  night,  while  the  Portier  and  his  wife 
slept  under  their  crimson  feather  beds  and  the 
crystals  of  the  chandelier  in  the  salon  shook 
in  the  draft  as  if  the  old  Austrian  court  still 
danced  beneath,  Harmony  fought  her  battle. 
And  a  battle  it  was.  Scatchy  and  the  Big 
Soprano  had  not  known  everything.  There 
had  been  no  insurance  on  her  father's  life; 
the  little  mother  was  penniless.  A  married 
sister  would  care  for  her,  but  what  then?  Har 
mony  had  enough  remaining  of  her  letter-of- 
credit  to  take  her  home,  and  she  had  —  the 
hoard  under  the  pillow.  To  go  back  and  teach 
the  violin;  or  to  stay  and  finish  under  the 
master,  be  presented,  as  he  had  promised  her, 
at  a  special  concert  in  Vienna,  with  all  the 
prestige  at  home  that  that  would  mean,  and  its 
resulting  possibility  of  fame  and  fortune  — 
which? 

She  decided  to  stay.  There  might  be  a  con 
cert  or  so,  and  she  could  teach  English.  The 

16 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Viennese  were  crazy  about  English.  Some  of 
the  stores  advertised  "English  Spoken."  That 
would  be  something  to  fall  back  on,  a  clerkship 
during  the  day. 

Toward  dawn  she  discovered  that  she  was 
very  cold,  and  she  went  into  the  Big  Soprano's 
deserted  and  disordered  room.  The  tile  stove 
was  warm  and  comfortable,  but  on  the  toilet 
table  there  lay  a  disreputable  comb  with  most 
of  the  teeth  gone.  Harmony  kissed  this  un- 
romantic  object!  Which  reveals  the  fact  that, 
genius  or  not,  she  was  only  a  young  and  rather 
frightened  girl,  and  that  every  atom  of  her 
ached  with  loneliness. 

She  did  not  sleep  at  all,  but  sat  curled  up  on 
the  bed  with  her  feet  under  her  and  thought 
things  out.  At  dawn  the  Portier,  crawling  out 
into  the  cold  from  under  his  feathers,  opened  the 
door  into  the  hall  and  listened.  She  was  playing, 
not  practicing,  and  the  music  was  the  barcarolle 
from  the  "Tales"  of  Hoffmann.  Standing  in 
the  doorway  in  his  night  attire,  his  chest  open 
to  the  frigid  morning  air,  his  face  upraised  to 
the  floor  above,  he  hummed  the  melody  in  a 
throaty  tenor. 

When  the  music  had  died  away  he  went  in 
and  closed  the  door  sheepishly.  His  wife 
stood  over  the  stove,  a  stick  of  firewood  in  her 
hand.  She  eyed  him. 

17 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"So!  It  is  the  American  Fraulein  now!" 

"I  did  but  hum  a  little.  She  drags  out  my 
heart  with  her  music."  He  fumbled  with  his 
mustache  bandage,  which  was  knotted  behind, 
keeping  one  eye  on  his  wife,  whose  morning 
pleasure  it  was  to  untie  it  for  him. 

"She  leaves  to-day,"  she  announced,  ignoring 
the  knot. 

"Why?  She  is  alone.     Rosa  says  —  " 
'"She  leaves  to-day!" 

,  The  knot  was  hopeless  now,  double-tied  and 
pulled  to  smooth  compactness.  The  Portier 
jerked  at  it. 

"No  Fraulein  stays  here  alone.  It  is  not 
respectable.  And  what  saw  I  last  night,  after 
she  entered  and  you  stood  moon-gazing  up  the 
stair  after  her!  A  man  in  the  gateway!" 

The  Portier  was  angry.  He  snarled  some 
thing  through  the  bandage,  which  had  slipped 
down  over  his  mouth,  and  picked  up  a  great  knife. 

"She  will  stay  if  she  so  desire,"  he  muttered 
furiously,  and,  raising  the  knife,  he  cut  the 
knotted  string.  His  mustache,  faintly  gray  and 
sweetly  up-curled,  stood  revealed. 

"She  will  stay!"  he  repeated.  "And  when 
you  see  men  at  the  gate,  let  me  know.  She  is 
an  angel!" 

"And  she  looks  like  the  angel  at  the  opera, 
hein?" 

18 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

This  was  a  crushing  blow.  The  Portier  wilted. 
Such  things  come  from  telling  one's  cousin, 
who  keeps  a  brushshop,  what  is  in  one's  heart. 
Yesterday  his  wife  had  needed  a  brush,  and 
to-day  —  Himmel,  the  girl  must  go ! 

Harmony  knew  also  that  she  must  go.  The 
apartment  was  large  and  expensive;  Rosa 
ate  much  and  wasted  more.  She  must  find 
somewhere  a  tiny  room  with  board,  a  humble 
little  room  but  with  a  stove.  It  is  folly  to  prac 
tice  with  stiffened  fingers.  A  room  where  her 
playing  would  not  annoy  people,  that  was  im 
portant. 

She  paid  Rosa  off  that  morning  out  of  money 
left  for  that  purpose.  Rosa  wept.  She  said 
she  would  stay  with  the  Fraulein  for  her  keep, 
because  it  was  not  the  custom  for  young  ladies 
to  be  alone  in  the  city  —  young  girls  of  the 
people,  of  course;  but  beautiful  young  ladies, 
no! 

Harmony  gave  her  an  extra  krone  or  two 
out  of  sheer  gratitude,  but  she  could  not  keep 
her.  And  at  noon,  having  packed  her  trunk, 
she  went  down  to  interview  the  Portier  and  his 
wife,  who  were  agents  under  the  owner  for  the 
old  house. 

The  Portier,  entirely  subdued,  was  sweeping 
out  the  hallway.  He  looked  past  the  girl,  not 
at  her,  and  observed  impassively  that  the  lease 

19 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

was  up  and  it  was  her  privilege  to  go.  In  the 
daylight  she  was  not  so  like  the  angel,  and 
after  all  she  could  only  play  the  violin.  The 
angel  had  a  voice,  such  a  voice!  And  besides, 
there  was  an  eye  at  the  crack  of  the  door. 

The  bit  of  cheer  of  the  night  before  was 
gone;  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  Har 
mony  started  on  her  quest  for  cheaper  quarters. 

Winter,  which  had  threatened  for  a  month, 
had  come  at  last.  The  cobblestones  glittered 
with  ice  and  the  small  puddles  in  the  gutters 
were  frozen.  Across  the  street  a  spotted  deer, 
shot  in  the  mountains  the  day  before  and 
hanging  from  a  hook  before  a  wild-game  shop, 
was  frozen  quite  stiff.  It  was  a  pretty  creature. 
The  girl  turned  her  eyes  away.  A  young  man, 
buying  cheese  and  tinned  fish  in  the  shop, 
watched  after  her. 

"That 's  an  American  girl,  is  n't  it?"  he  asked 
in  American-German. 

The  shopkeeper  was  voluble.  Also  Rosa  had 
bought  much  from  him,  and  Rosa  talked.  When 
the  American  left  the  shop  he  knew  everything 
of  Harmony  that  Rosa  knew  except  her  name. 
Rosa  called  her  "The  Beautiful  One."  Also 
he  was  short  one  krone  four  hellers  in  his  change, 
which  is  readily  done  when  a  customer  is  plainly 
thinking  of  a  "beautiful  one." 

Harmony  searched  all  day  for  the  little  room 
20 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

with  board  and  a  stove  and  no  objection  to 
practicing.  There  were  plenty —  but  the  rates ! 
The  willow  plume  looked  prosperous,  and  she 
had  a  way  of  making  the  plainest  garments 
appear  costly.  Landladies  looked  at  the  plume 
and  the  suit  and  heard  the  soft  swish  of  silk 
beneath,  which  marks  only  self-respect  in  the 
American  woman  but  is  extravagance  in  Europe, 
and  added  to  their  regular  terms  until  poor 
Harmony's  heart  almost  stood  still.  And  then 
at  last  toward  evening  she  happened  on  a  gloomy 
little  pension  near  the  corner  of  the  Alser- 
strasse,  and  it  being  dark  and  the  plume  not 
showing,  and  the  landlady  missing  the  rustle 
owing  to  cotton  in  her  ears  for  earache,  Harmony 
found  terms  that  she  could  meet  for  a  time. 

A  mean  little  room  enough,  but  with  a  stove. 
The  bed  sagged  in  the  center,  and  the  toilet- 
table  had  a  mirror  that  made  one  eye  appear 
higher  than  the  other  and  twisted  one's  nose. 
But  there  was  an  odor  of  stewing  cabbage  in 
the  air.  Also,  alas,  there  was  the  odor  of  many 
previous  stewed  cabbages,  and  of  dusty  car 
pets  and  stale  tobacco.  Harmony  had  had  no 
lunch;  she  turned  rather  faint. 

She  arranged  to  come  at  once,  and  got  out 
into  the  comparative  purity  of  the  staircase 
atmosphere  and  felt  her  way  down.  She  reeled 
once  or  twice.  At  the  bottom  of  the  dark  stairs 

21 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

she  stood  for  a  moment  with  her  eyes  'closed, 
to  the  dismay  of  a  young  man  who  had  just 
come  in  with  a  cheese  and  some  tinned  fish 
under  his  arm. 

He  put  down  his  packages  on  the  stone  floor 
and  caught  her  arm. 

"Not  ill,  are  you?"  he  asked  in  English, 
and  then  remembering.  "Bist  du  krank?"  He 
colored  violently  at  that,  recalling  too  late  the 
familiarity  of  the  "du." 

Harmony  smiled  faintly. 

"Only  tired,"  she  said  in  English.  "And  the 
odor  of  cabbage  — " 

Her  color  had  come  back  and  she  freed  her 
self  from  his  supporting  hand.  He  whistled 
softly.  He  had  recognized  her. 

"Cabbage,  of  course!"  he  said.  "The  pension 
upstairs  is  full  of  it.  I  live  there,  and  I've 
eaten  so  much  of  it  I  could  be  served  up  with 
pork." 

"I  am  going  to  live  there.  Is  it  as  bad  as 
that?" 

He  waved  a  hand  toward  the  parcels  on  the 
floor. 

"So  bad,"  he  observed,  "that  I  keep  body 
and  soul  together  by  buying  strong  and  odor 
ous  food  at  the  delicatessens  —  odorous,  be 
cause  only  rugged  flavors  rise  above  the  atmos 
phere  up  there.  Cheese  is  the  only  thing  that 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

really  knocks  out  the  cabbage,  and  once  or 
twice  even  cheese  has  retired  defeated." 

"But  I  don't  like  cheese."  In  sheer  relief 
from  the  loneliness  of  the  day  her  spirits  were 
rising. 

"Then  coffee!  But  not  there.  Coffee  at  the 
coffee-house  on  the  corner.  I  say  — "  He  hesi 
tated. 

"Yes?" 

"Would  you  —  don't  you  think  a  cup  of  coffee 
would  set  you  up  a  bit?" 

"It  sounds  attractive," — uncertainly. 

"Coffee  with  whipped  cream  and  some  little 
cakes?" 

Harmony  hesitated.  In  the  gloom  of  the  hall 
she  could  hardly  see  this  brisk  young  Ameri 
can  —  young,  she  knew  by  his  voice,  tall  by 
his  silhouette,  strong  by  the  way  he  had  caught 
her.  She  could  not  see  his  face,  but  she  liked 
his  voice. 

"Do  you  mean  —  with  you?" 

"I'm  a  doctor.  I  am  going  to  fill  my  own 
prescription." 

That  sounded  reassuring.  Doctors  were  not 
as  other  men;  they  were  legitimate  friends  in 
need. 

"I  am  sure  it  is  not  proper,  but  - 

"Proper!  Of  course  it  is.  I  shall  send  you  a 
bill  for  professional  services.  Besides,  won't  we 

23 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

be  formally  introduced  to-night  by  the  land 
lady?  Come  now --to  the  coffee-house  and 
the  Paris  edition  of  the  'Herald'!"  But  the 
next  moment  he  paused  and  ran  his  hand  over 
his  chin.  "I'm  pretty  disreputable,"  he  ex 
plained.  "I  have  been  in  a  clinic  all  day,  and, 
hang  it  all,  I  'm  not  shaved." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?" 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  explained  gravely, 
picking  up  the  cheese  and  the  tinned  fish,  "it 
makes  a  difference  in  me  that  I  wish  you  to 
realize  before  you  see  me  in  a  strong  light." 

He  rapped  at  the  Portier's  door,  with  the  in 
tention  of  leaving  his  parcels  there,  but  receiv 
ing  no  reply  tucked  them  under  his  arm.  A 
moment  later  Harmony  was  in  the  open  air, 
rather  dazed,  a  bit  excited,  and  lovely  with  the 
color  the  adventure  brought  into  her  face.  Her 
companion  walked  beside  her,  tall,  slightly 
stooped.  She  essayed  a  fugitive  little  side- 
glance  up  at  him,  and  meeting  his  eyes  hastily 
averted  hers. 

They  passed  a  policeman,  and  suddenly  there 
flashed  into  the  girl's  mind  little  Scatchett's 
letter. 

"Do  be  careful,  Harry.  If  any  one  you  do 
not  know  speaks  to  you,  call  a  policeman." 


CHAPTER  III 

fTHHE  coffee-house  was  warm  and  bright. 
JL  Round  its  small  tables  were  gathered 
miscellaneous  groups,  here  and  there  a  woman, 
but  mostly  men  —  uniformed  officers,  who  made 
of  the  neighborhood  coffee-house  a  sort  of  club, 
where  under  their  breath  they  criticized  the 
Government  and  retailed  small  regimental  gos 
sip;  professors  from  the  university,  still  wearing 
under  the  beards  of  middle  life  the  fine  hori 
zontal  scars  of  student  days;  elderly  doctors  from 
the  general  hospital  across  the  street;  even  a 
Hofrath  or  two,  drinking  beer  and  reading  the 
"Fliegende  Blaetter"  and  "  Simplicissimus " ; 
and  in  an  alcove  round  a  billiard  table  a  group 
of  noisy  Korps  students.  Over  all  a  permeating 
odor  of  coffee,  strong  black  coffee,  made  with  a 
fig  or  two  to  give  it  color.  It  rose  even  above 
the  blue  tobacco  haze  and  dominated  the  atmos 
phere  with  its  spicy  and  stimulating  richness. 
A  bustle  of  waiters,  a  hum  of  conversation,  the 
rattle  of  newspapers  and  the  click  of  billiard 
balls  —  this  was  the  coffee-house. 

Harmony  had  never  been  inside  one  before. 
The  little  music  colony  had  been  a  tight-closed 

25 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

corporation,  retaining  its  American  integrity, 
in  spite  of  the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa  and  three 
expensive  lessons  a  week  in  German.  Harmony 
knew  the  art  galleries  and  the  churches,  which 
were  free,  and  the  opera,  thanks  to  no  butter  at 
supper.  But  of  that  backbone  of  Austrian  life, 
the  coffee-house,  she  was  profoundly  ignorant. 

Her  companion  found  her  a  seat  in  a  corner 
near  a  heater  and  disappeared  for  an  instant  on 
the  search  for  the  Paris  edition  of  the  "Herald." 
The  girl  followed  him  with  her  eyes.  Seen  under 
the  bright  electric  lights,  he  was  not  handsome, 
hardly  good-looking.  His  mouth  was  wide,  his 
nose  irregular,  his  hair  a  nondescript  brown, — 
but  the  mouth  had  humor,  the  nose  character, 
and,  thank  Heaven,  there  was  plenty  of  hair. 
Not  that  Harmony  saw  all  this  at  once.  As 
he  tacked  to  and  fro  round  the  tables,  with  a  nod 
here  and  a  word  there,  she  got  a  sort  of  ensemble 
effect  —  a  tall  man,  possibly  thirty,  broad- 
shouldered,  somewhat  stooped,  as  tall  men  are 
apt  to  be.  And  shabby,  undeniably  shabby! 

The  shabbiness  was  a  shock.  A  much-braided 
officer,  trim  from  the  points  of  his  mustache  to 
the  points  of  his  shoes,  rose  to  speak  to  him.  The 
shabbiness  was  accentuated  by  the  contrast. 
Possibly  the  revelation  was  an  easement  to  the 
girl's  nervousness.  This  smiling  and  unpressed 
individual,  blithely  waving  aloft  the  Paris  edi- 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

tion  of  the  "Herald"  and  equally  blithely  ig 
noring  the  maledictions  of  the  student  from 
whom  he  had  taken  it  —  even  Scatchy  could 
not  have  called  him  a  vulture  or  threatened 
him  with  the  police. 

He  placed  the  paper  before  her  and  sat  down 
at  her  side,  not  to  interfere  with  her  outlook 
over  the  room. 

"Warmer?"  he  asked.  ^ 

"Very  much." 

"  Coffee  is  coming.  And  cinnamon  cakes  with 
plenty  of  sugar.  They  know  me  here  and  they 
know  where  I  live.  They  save  the  sugariest 
cakes  for  me.  Don't  let  me  bother  you;  go  on 
and  read.  See  which  of  the  smart  set  is  getting 
a  divorce  —  or  is  it  always  the  same  one? 
And  who's  President  back  home." 

"I'd  rather  look  round.  It's  curious,  isn't 
it?" 

"Curious?  It 's  heavenly!  It 's  the  one  thing 
I  am  going  to  take  back  to  America  with  me 
—  one  coffee-house,  one  dozen  military  men  for 
local  color,  one  dozen  students  ditto,  and  one 
proprietor's  wife  to  sit  in  the  cage  and  short 
change  the  unsuspecting.  I  '11  grow  wealthy." 

"But  what  about  the  medical  practice?" 

He  leaned  over  toward  her;  his  dark-gray 
eyes  fulfilled  the  humorous  promise  of  his 
mouth. 

27 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Why,  it  will  work  out  perfectly,"  he  said 
whimsically.  "The  great  American  public  will 
eat  cinnamon  cakes  and  drink  coffee  until  the 
feeble  American  nervous  system  will  be  shat 
tered.  I  shall  have  an  office  across  the 
street!" 

After  that,  having  seen  how  tired  she  looked, 
he  forbade  conversation  until  she  had  had  her 
coffee.  She  ate  the  cakes,  too,  and  he  watched 
her  with  comfortable  satisfaction. 

"Nod  your  head  but  don't  speak,"  he  said. 
"  Remember,  I  am  prescribing,  and  there 's 
to  be  no  conversation  until  the  coffee  is  down. 
Shall  I  or  shall  I  not  open  the  cheese?" 

But  Harmony  did  not  wish  the  cheese,  and  so 
signified.  Something  inherently  delicate  in  the 
unknown  kept  him  from  more  than  an  occa 
sional  swift  glance  at  her.  He  read  aloud,  as  she 
ate,  bits  of  news  from  the  paper,  pausing  to  sip 
his  own  coffee  and  to  cast  an  eye  over  the 
crowded  room.  Here  and  there  an  officer,  gaz 
ing  with  too  open  admiration  on  Harmony's 
lovely  face,  found  himself  fixed  by  a  pair  of 
steel-gray  eyes  that  were  anything  but  humor 
ous  at  that  instant,  and  thought  best  to  shift 
his  gaze. 

The  coffee  finished,  the  girl  began  to  gather 
up  her  wraps.  But  the  unknown  protested. 

"The  function  of  a  coffee-house,"  he  explained 
28 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

gravely,  "is  twofold.  Coffee  is  only  the  first 
half.  The  second  half  is  conversation." 

"I  converse  very  badly." 

"So  do  I.  Suppose  we  talk  about  ourselves. 
We  are  sure  to  do  that  well.  Shall  I  commence?  " 

Harmony  was  in  no  mood  to  protest.  Having 
swallowed  coffee,  why  choke  over  conversation? 
Besides,  she  was  very  comfortable.  It  was 
warm  there,  with  the  heater  at  her  back;  better 
than  the  little  room  with  the  sagging  bed  and 
the  doors  covered  with  wall  paper.  Her  feet 
had  stopped  aching,  too.  She  could  have  sat 
there  for  hours.  And  -  -  why  evade  it?  —  she 
was  interested.  This  whimsical  and  respectful 
young  man  with  his  absurd  talk  and  his  shabby 
clothes  had  roused  her  curiosity. 

"Please,"  she  assented. 

"Then,  first  of  all,  my  name.  I'm  getting 
that  over  early,  because  it  is  n't  much,  as  names 
go.  Peter  Byrne  it  is.  Don't  shudder." 

"Certainly  I'm  not  shuddering." 

"I  have  another  name,  put  in  by  my  Irish 
father  to  conciliate  a  German  uncle  of  my 
mother's.  Augustus!  It 's  rather  a  mess.  What 
shall  I  put  on  my  professional  brassplate?  If 
I  put  P.  Augustus  Byrne  nobody's  fooled. 
They  know  my  wretched  first  name  is  Peter." 

"Or  Patrick." 

"I  rather  like  Patrick — if  I  thought  it  might 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

pass  as  Patrick!  Patrick  has  possibilities. 
The  diminutive  is  Pat,  and  that's  not  bad. 
But  Peter!" 

"Do  you  know,"  Harmony  confessed  half 
shyly,  "I  like  Peter  as  a  name." 

"Peter  it  shall  be,  then.  I  go  down  to  pos 
terity  and  fame  as  Peter  Byrne.  The  rest 
does  n't  amount  to  much,  but  I  want  you  to 
know  it,  since  you  have  been  good  enough  to 
accept  me  on  faith.  I  'm  here  alone,  from  a 
little  town  in  eastern  Ohio;  worked  my  way 
through  a  coeducational  college  in  the  West 
and  escaped  unmarried;  did  two  years  in  a  dry- 
goods  store  until,  by  saving  and  working  in  my 
vacations,  I  got  through  medical  college  and 
tried  general  practice.  Did  n't  like  it  —  always 
wanted  to  do  surgery.  A  little  legacy  from  the 
German  uncle,  trying  to  atone  for  the  'Augus 
tus/  gave  me  enough  money  to  come  here. 
I  've  got  a  chance  with  the  Days — surgeons,  you 
know  —  when  I  go  back,  if  I  can  hang  on  long 
enough.  That 's  all.  Here  's  a  traveler's  check 
with  my  name  on  it,  to  vouch  for  the  truth  of 
this  thrilling  narrative.  Gaze  on  it  with  awe; 
there  are  only  a  few  of  them  left!" 

Harmony  was  as  delicately  strung,  as  vibrat- 
ingly  responsive  as  the  strings  of  her  own  violin, 
and  under  the  even  lightness  of  his  tone  she 
felt  many  things  that  met  a  response  in  her  — 

30 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

loneliness  and  struggle,  and  the  ever-present 
anxiety  about  money,  grim  determination,  hope 
and  fear,  and  even  occasional  despair.  He  was 
still  young,  but  there  were  lines  in  his  face  and 
a  hint  of  gray  in  his  hair.  Even  had  he  been 
less  frank,  she  would  have  known  soon  enough 
—  the  dingy  little  pension,  the  shabby  clothes  — 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  she  said  simply. 
"  I  think  I  understand  very  well  because  —  it 's 
music  with  me:  violin.  And  my  friends  have 
gone,  so  I  am  alone,  too." 

He  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  looked 
out  over  the  crowd  without  seeing  it. 

"It's  curious,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "Here  we 
are,  you  and  I,  meeting  in  the  center  of  Europe, 
both  lonely  as  the  mischief,  both  working  our 
heads  off  for  an  idea  that  may  never  pan  out! 
Why  aren't  you  at  home  to-night,  eating  a 
civilized  beefsteak  and  running  upstairs  to 
get  ready  for  a  nice  young  man  to  bring  you  a 
box  of  chocolates?  Why  am  I  not  measuring  out 
calico  in  Shipley  &  West's?  Instead,  we  are 
going  to  Frau  Schwarz',  to  listen  to  cold  ham 
and  scorched  compote  eaten  in  six  different 
languages." 

Harmony  made  no  immediate  reply.  He 
seemed  to  expect  none.  She  was  drawing  on  her 
gloves,  her  eyes,  like  his,  roving  over  the  crowd. 

31 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Far  back  among  the  tables  a  young  man  rose 
and  yawned.  Then,  seeing  Byrne,  he  waved  a 
greeting  to  him.  Byrne's  eyes,  from  being  in 
trospective,  became  watchful. 

The  young  man  was  handsome  in  a  florid, 
red-cheeked  way,  with  black  hair  and  blue  eyes. 
Unlike  Byrne,  he  was  foppishly  neat.  He  was 
not  alone.  A  slim  little  Austrian  girl,  exceed 
ingly  chic,  rose  when  he  did  and  threw  away 
the  end  of  a  cigarette. 

"Why  do  we  go  so  soon?"  she  demanded 
fretfully  in  German.  "It  is  early  still." 

He  replied  in  English.  It  was  a  curious  way 
they  had,  and  eminently  satisfactory,  each  un 
derstanding  better  than  he  spoke  the  other's 
language. 

"Because,  my  beloved,"  he  said  lightly,  "you 
are  smoking  a  great  many  poisonous  and  highly 
expensive  cigarettes.  Also  I  wish  to  speak  to 
Peter." 

The  girl  followed  his  eyes  and  stiffened 
jealously. 

"Who  is  that  with  Peter?" 

"We  are  going  over  to  find  out,  little  one. 
Old  Peter  with  a  woman  at  last!" 

The  little  Austrian  walked  delicately,  swaying 
her  slim  body  with  a  slow  and  sensuous  grace. 
She  touched  an  officer  as  she  passed  him,  and 
paused  to  apologize,  to  the  officer's  delight  and 

32 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

her  escort's  irritation.  And  Peter  Byrne  watched 
and  waited,  a  line  of  annoyance  between  his 
brows.  The  girl  was  ahead;  that  complicated 
things. 

When  she  was  within  a  dozen  feet  of  the 
table  he  rose  hastily,  with  a  word  of  apology, 
and  met  the  couple.  It  was  adroitly  done.  He 
had  taken  the  little  Austrian's  arm  and  led  her 
by  the  table  while  he  was  still  greeting  her. 
He  held  her  in  conversation  in  his  absurd  Ger 
man  until  they  had  reached  the  swinging  doors, 
while  her  companion  followed  helplessly.  And 
he  bowed  her  out,  protesting  his  undying  ad 
miration  for  her  eyes,  while  the  florid  youth 
alternately  raged  behind  him  and  stared  back 
at  Harmony,  interested  and  unconscious  behind 
her  table. 

The  little  Austrian  was  on  the  pavement 
when  Byrne  turned,  unsmiling,  to  the  other 
man. 

"That  won't  do,  you  know,  Stewart,"  he  said, 
grave  but  not  unfriendly. 

"The  Kid  would  n't  bite  her." 

"We  '11  not  argue  about  it." 

After  a  second's  awkward  pause  Stewart 
smiled. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  agreed  cheerfully.  "That 
is  up  to  you,  of  course.  I  did  n't  know.  We  're 
looking  for  you  to-night." 

33 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

A  sudden  repulsion  for  the  evening's  engage 
ment  rose  in  Byrne,  but  the  situation  following 
his  ungraciousness  was  delicate. 

"I  '11  be  round,"  he  said.  "I  have  a  lecture 
and  I  may  be  late,  but  I'll  come." 

The  "Kid"  was  not  stupid.  She  moved  off 
into  the  night,  chin  in  air,  angrily  flushed. 

"You  saw!"  she  choked,  when  Stewart  had 
overtaken  her  and  slipped  a  hand  through  her 
arm.  "He  protects  her  from  me!  It  is  because 
of  you.  Before  I  knew  you  - 

"Before  you  knew  me,  little  one,"  he  said 
cheerfully, "you  were  exactly  what  you  are  now." 

She  paused  on  the  curb  and  raised  her  voice. 

"So!    And  what  is  that?" 

"  Beautiful  as  the  stars,  only  —  not  so 
remote." 

In  their  curious  bi-lingual  talk  there  was  little 
room  for  subtlety.  The  "beautiful"  calmed  her, 
but  the  second  part  of  the  sentence  roused  her 
suspicion. 

"Remote?    What  is  that?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  Worthington." 

The  name  was  a  signal  for  war.  Stewart 
repented,  but  too  late. 

In  the  cold  evening  air,  to  the  amusement  of 
a  passing  detail  of  soldiers  trundling  a  bread- 
wagon  by  a  rope,  Stewart  stood  on  the  pave 
ment  and  dodged  verbal  brickbats  of  Viennese 

34 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

idioms  and  German  epithets.  He  drew  his  chin 
into  the  up-turned  collar  of  his  overcoat  and 
waited,  an  absurdly  patient  figure,  until  the  hail 
of  consonants  had  subsided  into  a  rain  of  tears. 
Then  he  took  the  girl's  elbow  again  and  led  her, 
childishly  weeping,  into  a  narrow  side  street 
beyond  the  prying  ears  and  eyes  of  the  Alser- 
strasse. 

Byrne  went  back  to  Harmony.  The  incident 
of  Stewart  and  the  girl  was  closed  and  he  dis 
missed  it  instantly.  That  situation  was  not  his, 
or  of  his  making.  But  here  in  the  coffee-house, 
lovely,  alluring,  rather  puzzled  at  this  moment, 
was  also  a  situation.  For  there  was  a  situation. 
He  had  suspected  it  that  morning,  listening 
to  the  delicatessen-seller's  narrative  of  Rosa's 
account  of  the  disrupted  colony  across  in  the 
old  lodge;  he  had  been  certain  of  it  that  even 
ing,  finding  Harmony  in  the  dark  entrance  to 
his  own  rather  sordid  pension.  Now,  in  the 
bright  light  of  the  coffee-house,  surmising  her 
poverty,  seeing  her  beauty,  the  emotional  com 
ing  and  going  of  her  color,  her  frank  loneliness, 
and  —  God  save  the  mark !  —  her  trust  in  him, 
he  accepted  the  situation  and  adopted  it:  his 
responsibility,  if  you  please. 

He  straightened  under  it.  He  knew  the  old 
city  fairly  well  —  enough  to  love  it  and  to  loathe 
it  in  one  breath.  He  had  seen  its  tragedies  and 

35 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

passed  them  by,  or  had,  in  his  haphazard  way, 
thrown  a  greeting  to  them,  or  even  a  glass  of 
native  wine.  And  he  knew  the  musical  temper 
ament;  the  all  or  nothing  of  its  insistent  de 
mands;  its  heights  that  are  higher  than  others, 
its  wretchednesses  that  are  hell.  Once  in  the 
Hofstadt  Theater,  where  he  had  bought  stand 
ing  room,  he  had  seen  a  girl  he  had  known  in 
Berlin,  where  he  was  taking  clinics  and  where 
she  was  cooking  her  own  meals.  She  had  been 
studying  singing.  In  the  Hofstadt  Theater  she 
had  worn  a  sable  coat  and  had  avoided  his  eyes. 

Perhaps  the  old  coffee-house  had  seen  nothing 
more  absurd,  in  its  years  of  coffee  and  billiards 
and  Mlinchener  beer,  than  Peter's  new  resolu 
tion  that  night:  this  poverty  adopting  poverty, 
this  youth  adopting  youth,  with  the  altruistic 
purpose  of  saving  it  from  itself. 

And  this,  mind  you,  before  Peter  Byrne  had 
heard  Harmony's  story  or  knew  her  name,  Rosa 
having  called  her  "The  Beautiful  One"  in  her 
narrative,  and  the  delicatessen-seller  being  literal 
in  his  repetition. 

Back  to  "The  Beautiful  One"  went  Peter 
Byrne,  and,  true  to  his  new  part  of  protector 
and  guardian,  squared  his  shoulders  and  tried  to 
look  much  older  than  he  really  was,  and  respon 
sible.  The  result  was  a  grimness  that  alarmed 
Harmony  back  to  the  forgotten  proprieties. 

36 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  think  I  must  go,"  she  said  hurriedly,  after 
a  glance  at  his  determinedly  altruistic  profile. 
"I  must  finish  packing  my  things.  The  Portier 
has  promised  - 

"Go!  Why,  you  haven't  even  told  me  your 
name!" 

"Frau  Schwarz  will  present  you  to-night," 
primly  and  rising. 

Peter  Byrne  rose,  too. 

"I  am  going  back  with  you.  You  should  not 
go  through  that  lonely  yard  alone  after  dark." 

;<Yard!   How  do  you  know  that?" 

Byrne  was  picking  up  the  cheese,  which  he 
had  thoughtlessly  set  on  the  heater,  and  which 
proved  to  be  in  an  alarming  state  of  dissolution. 
It  took  a  moment  to  rewrap,  and  incidentally 
furnished  an  inspiration.  He  indicated  it  airily. 

"Saw  you  this  morning  coming  out  —  deli 
catessen  shop  across  the  street,"  he  said  glibly. 
And  then,  in  an  outburst  of  honesty  which  the 
girl's  eyes  seemed  somehow  to  compel:  "That's 
true,  but  it 's  not  all  the  truth.  I  was  on  the  bus 
last  night,  and  when  you  got  off  alone  I  —  I  saw 
you  were  an  American,  and  that's  not  a  good 
neighborhood.  I  took  the  liberty  of  following  you 
to  your  gate!" 

He  need  not  have  been  alarmed.  Harmony 
was  only  grateful,  and  said  so.  And  in  her  grati 
tude  she  made  no  objection  to  his  suggestion  that 

37 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

he  see  her  safely  to  the  old  lodge  and  help  her 
carry  her  hand-luggage  and  her  violin  to  the 
pension.  He  paid  the  trifling  score,  and  followed 
by  many  eyes  in  the  room  they  went  out  into 
the  crisp  night  together. 

At  the  lodge  the  doors  stood  wide,  and  a  vig 
orous  sound  of  scrubbing  showed  that  the  Por- 
tier's  wife  was  preparing  for  the  inspection  of 
possible  new  tenants.  She  was  cleaning  down 
the  stairs  by  the  light  of  a  candle,  and  the  steam 
of  the  hot  water  on  the  cold  marble  invested 
her  like  an  aura.  She  stood  aside  to  let  them 
pass,  and  then  went  cumbrously  down  the  stairs 
to  where,  a  fork  in  one  hand  and  a  pipe  in  the 
other,  the  Portier  was  frying  chops  for  the  even 
ing  meal. 

"What  have  I  said?"  she  demanded  from  the 
doorway.  "Your  angel  is  here.'* 

"So!" 

"She  with  whom  you  sing,  old  cracked  voice! 
Whose  money  you  refuse,  because  she  reminds 
you  of  your  opera  singer !  She  is  again  here,  and 
with  a  man!" 

"  It  is  the  way  of  the  young  and  beautiful  — 
there  is  always  a  man,"  said  the  Portier,  turning 
a  chop. 

His  wife  wiped  her  steaming  hands  on  her 
apron  and  turned  away,  exasperated. 

"It  is  the  same  man  whom  I  last  night  saw 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

at  the  gate,'*  she  threw  back  over  her  shoulder. 
"I  knew  it  from  the  first;  but  you,  great  booby, 
can  see  nothing  but  red  lips.  Bah!" 

Upstairs  in  the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa,  lighted 
by  one  candle  and  freezing  cold,  in  a  stiff  chair 
under  the  great  chandelier  Peter  Byrne  sat  and 
waited  and  blew  on  his  fingers.  Down  below, 
in  the  Street  of  Seven  Stars,  the  arc  lights  swung 
in  the  wind. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  supper  that  evening  was  even  un 
usually  bad.  [  Frau  Schwarz,  much  crimped 
and  clad  in  frayed  black  satin,  presided  at  the 
head  of  the  long  table.  There  were  few,  almost 
no  Americans,  the  Americans  flocking  to  good 
food  at  reckless  prices  in  more  fashionable  pen 
sions;  to  the  Frau  Gallitzenstein's,  for  instance, 
in  the  Kochgasse,  where  there  was  to  be  had 
real  beefsteak,  where  turkeys  were  served  at 
Thanksgiving  and  Christmas,  and  where,  were 
one  so  minded,  one  might  revel  in  whipped 
cream. 

The  Pension  Schwarz,  however,  was  not  with 
out  adornment.  In  the  center  of  the  table  was  a 
large  bunch  of  red  cotton  roses  with  wire  stems 
and  green  paper  leaves,  and  over  the  side-table, 
with  its  luxury  of  compote  in  tall  glass  dishes  and 
its  wealth  of  small  hard  cakes,  there  hung  a 
framed  motto  which  said,  "Nicht  Rauchen," 
"No  Smoking," —  and  which  looked  suspiciously 
as  if  it  had  once  adorned  a  compartment  of  a 
railroad  train. 

Peter  Byrne  was  early  in  the  dining-room. 
He  had  made,  for  him,  a  careful  toilet,  which 

40 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

consisted  of  a  shave  and  clean  linen.  But  he  had 
gone  further:  He  had  discovered,  for  the  first 
time  in  the  three  months  of  its  defection,  a  but 
ton  missing  from  his  coat,  and  had  set  about  to 
replace  it.  He  had  cut  a  button  from  another 
coat,  by  the  easy  method  of  amputating  it  with 
a  surgical  bistoury,  and  had  sewed  it  in  its  new 
position  with  a  curved  surgical  needle  and  a 
few  inches  of  sterilized  catgut.  The  operation 
was  slow  and  painful,  and  accomplished  only 
with  the  aid  of  two  cigarettes  and  an  artery  clip. 
When  it  was  over  he  tied  the  ends  in  a  surgeon's 
knot  underneath  and  stood  back  to  consider  the 
result.  It  seemed  neat  enough,  but  conspicuous. 
After  a  moment  or  two  of  troubled  thought  he 
blacked  the  white  catgut  with  a  dot  of  ink  and 
went  on  his  way  rejoicing. 

Peter  Byrne  was  entirely  untroubled  as  to  the 
wisdom  of  the  course  he  had  laid  out  for  himself. 
He  followed  no  consecutive  line  of  thought  as 
he  dressed.  When  he  was  not  smoking  he  was 
whistling,  and  when  he  was  doing  neither,  and 
the  needle  proved  refractory  in  his  cold  fin 
gers,  he  was  swearing  to  himself.  For  there  was 
no  fire  in  the  room.  The  materials  for  a  fire  were 
there,  and  a  white  tile  stove,  as  cozy  as  an  obelisk 
in  a  cemetery,  stood  in  the  corner.  But  fires 
are  expensive,  and  hardly  necessary  when  one 
sleeps  with  all  one's  windows  open  —  one  win- 

41 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

dow,  to  be  exact,  the  room  being  very  small 
—  and  spends  most  of  the  day  in  a  warm  and 
comfortable  shambles  called  a  hospital. 

To  tell  the  truth  he  was  not  thinking  of  Har 
mony  at  all,  except  subconsciously,  as  instance 
the  button.  He  was  going  over,  step  by  step, 
the  technic  of  an  operation  he  had  seen  that  af 
ternoon,  weighing,  considering,  even  criticizing. 
His  conclusion,  reached  as  he  brushed  back  his 
hair  and  put  away  his  sewing  implements,  was 
somewhat  to  the  effect  that  he  could  have  done  a 
better  piece  of  work  with  his  eyes  shut  and  his 
hands  tied  behind  his  back;  and  that  if  it  were 
not  for  the  wealth  of  material  to  work  on  he  'd 
pack  up  and  go  home.  Which  brought  him  back 
to  Harmony  and  his  new  responsibility.  He  took 
off  the  necktie  he  had  absently  put  on  and 
hunted  out  a  better  one. 

He  was  late  at  supper  —  an  offense  that 
brought  a  scowl  from  the  head  of  the  table,  a 
scowl  that  he  met  with  a  cheerful  smile.  Har 
mony  was  already  in  her  place.  Seated  between 
a  little  Bulgarian  and  a  Jewish  student  from 
Galicia,  she  was  almost  immediately  struggling 
in  a  sea  of  language,  into  which  she  struck  out 
now  and  then  tentatively,  only  to  be  again  sub 
merged.  Byrne  had  bowed  to  her  convention 
ally,  even  coldly,  aware  of  the  sharp  eyes  and 
tongues  round  the  table,  but  Harmony  did  not 

42 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

understand.  She  had  expected  moral  support 
from  his  presence,  and  failing  that  she  sank 
back  into  the  loneliness  and  depression  of  the 
day.  Her  bright  color  faded;  her  eyes  looked 
tragic  and  rather  aloof.  She  ate  almost  noth 
ing,  and  left  the  table  before  the  others  had 
finished. 

What  curious  little  dramas  of  the  table  are 
played  under  unseeing  eyes !  What  small  trage 
dies  begin  with  the  soup  and  end  with  dessert! 
What  heartaches  with  a  salad!  Small  trag 
edies  of  averted  eyes,  looking  away  from  appeal 
ing  ones;  lips  that  tremble  with  wretchedness 
nibbling  daintily  at  a  morsel;  smiles  that  sear; 
foolish  bits  of  talk  that  mean  nothing  except  to 
one,  and  to  that  one  everything!  Harmony, 
freezing  at  Peter's  formal  bow  and  gazing  ob 
stinately  ahead  during  the  rest  of  the  meal,  or 
no  nearer  Peter  than  the  red-paper  roses,  and 
Peter,  showering  the  little  Bulgarian  next  to 
her  with  detestable  German  in  the  hope  of  a 
glance.  And  over  all  the  odor  of  cabbage  salad, 
and  the  "Nicht  Rauchen"  sign,  and  an  acrimoni 
ous  discussion  on  eugenics  between  an  American 
woman  doctor  named  Gates  and  a  German 
matron  who  had  had  fifteen  children,  and  who 
reduced  every  general  statement  to  a  personal 
insult. 

Peter  followed  Harmony  as  soon  as  he  dared. 
43 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Her  door  was  closed,  and  she  was  playing  very 
softly,  so  as  to  disturb  no  one.  Defiantly,  too, 
had  he  only  known  it,  her  small  chin  up  and  her 
color  high  again;  playing  the  "Humoresque," 
of  all  things,  in  the  hope,  of  course,  that  he  would 
hear  it  and  guess  from  her  choice  the  wild  merri 
ment  of  her  mood.  Peter  rapped  once  or  twice, 
but  obtained  no  answer,  save  that  the  "Hu 
moresque"  rose  a  bit  higher;  and,  Dr.  Gates 
coming  along  the  hall  just  then,  he  was  forced  to 
light  a  cigarette  to  cover  his  pausing. 

Dr.  Gates,  however,  was  not  suspicious.  She 
was  a  smallish  woman  of  forty  or  thereabout, 
with  keen  eyes  behind  glasses  and  a  masculine 
disregard  of  clothes,  and  she  paused  by  Byrne 
to  let  him  help  her  into  her  ulster. 

"New  girl,  eh?"  she  said,  with  a  birdlike  nod 
toward  the  door.  "Very  gay,  isn't  she,  to  have 
just  finished  a  supper  like  that!  Honestly,  Peter, 
what  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"  Growl  and  stay  on,  as  we  have  for  six  months. 
There  is  better  food,  but  not  for  our  terms." 

Dr.  Gates  sighed,  and  picking  a  soft  felt  hat 
from  the  table  put  it  on  with  a  single  jerk  down 
over  her  hair. 

"Oh,  darn  money,  anyhow!"  she  said.  "Come 
and  walk  to  the  corner  with  me.  I  have  a 
lecture." 

Peter  promised  to  follow  in  a  moment,  and 
44 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

hurried  back  to  his  room.  There,  on  a  page  from 
one  of  his  lecture  notebooks,  he  wrote :  — 

"Are  you  ill?    Or  have  I   done  anything? 

"P.  B." 

This  with  great  care  he  was  pushing  under 
Harmony's  door  when  the  little  Bulgarian  came 
along  and  stopped,  smiling.  He  said  nothing, 
nor  did  Peter,  who  rose  and  dusted  his  knees. 
The  little  Bulgarian  spoke  no  English  and  little 
German.  Between  them  was  the  wall  of  lan 
guage.  But  higher  than  this  barrier  was  the 
understanding  of  their  common  sex.  He  held 
out  his  hand,  still  smiling,  and  Peter,  grinning 
sheepishly,  took  it.  Then  he  followed  the 
woman  doctor  down  the  stairs. 

To  say  that  Peter  Byrne  was  already  in  love 
with  Harmony  would  be  absurd.  She  attracted 
him,  as  any  beautiful  and  helpless  girl  attracts 
an  unattracted  man.  He  was  much  more  con 
cerned,  now  that  he  feared  he  had  offended  her, 
than  he  would  have  been  without  this  fillip 
to  his  interest.  But  even  his  concern  did  not 
prevent  his  taking  copious  and  intelligent  notes 
at  his  lecture  that  night,  or  interfere  with  his 
enjoyment  of  the  Stein  of  beer  with  which,  after 
it  was  over,  he  washed  down  its  involved 
German. 

The  engagement  at  Stewart's  irked  him  somc- 
45 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

what.  He  did  not  approve  of  Stewart  exactly, 
not  from  any  dislike  of  the  man,  but  from  a  lack 
of  fineness  in  the  man  himself --an  intangible 
thing  that  seems  to  be  a  matter  of  that  unfash 
ionable  essence,  the  soul,  as  against  the  clay; 
of  the  thing  contained,  by  an  inverse  metonymy, 
for  the  container. 

Boyer,  a  nerve  man  from  Texas,  met  him 
on  the  street,  and  they  walked  to  Stewart's 
apartment  together.  The  frosty  air  and  the 
rapid  exercise  combined  to  drive  away  Byrne's 
irritation;  that,  and  the  recollection  that  it  was 
Saturday  night  and  that  to-morrow  there  would 
be  no  clinics,  no  lectures,  no  operations;  that 
the  great  shambles  would  be  closed  down  and 
that  priests  would  read  mass  to  convalescents 
in  the  'chapels.  He  was  whistling  as  he  walked 
along. 

Boyer,  a  much  older  man,  whose  wife  had 
come  over  with  him,  stopped  under  a  street 
light  to  consult  his  watch. 

"Almost  ten!"  he  said.  "I  hope  you  don't 
mind,  Byrne;  but  I  told  Jennie  I  was  going  to 
your  pension.  She  detests  Stewart." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  She  knows  you're 
playing  poker?" 

"Yes.  She  does  n't  object  to  poker.  It's  the 
other.  You  can 't  make  a  good  woman  under 
stand  that  sort  of  thing." 

46 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Thank  God  for  that!" 

After  a  moment  of  silence  Byrne  took  up  his 
whistling  again.  It  was  the  "Humoresque." 

Stewart's  apartment  was  on  the  third  floor. 
Admission  at  that  hour  was  to  be  gained  only  by 
ringing,  and  Boyer  touched  the  bell.  The  lights 
were  still  on,  however,  in  the  hallways,  revealing 
not  overclean  stairs  and,  for  a  wonder,  an  electric 
elevator.  This,  however,  a  card  announced  as 
out  of  order.  Boyer  stopped  and  examined  the 
card  grimly. 

"  'Out  of  order'!"  he  observed.  "Out  of 
order  since  last  spring,  judging  by  that  card. 
Vorwarts!" 

They  climbed  easily,  deliberately.'  At  home  in 
God's  country  Boyer  played  golf,  as  became  the 
leading  specialist  of  his  county.  Byrne,  with  a 
driving-arm  like  the  rod  of  a  locomotive,  had 
been  obliged  to  forswear  the  more  expensive 
game  for  tennis,  with  a  resulting  muscular  de 
velopment  that  his  slight  stoop  belied.  He 
was  as  hard  as  nails,  without  an  ounce  of  fat, 
and  he  climbed  the  long  steep  flights  with  an 
elasticity  that  left  even  Boyer  a  step  or  so 
behind. 

Stewart  opened  the  door  himself,  long  German 
pipe  in  hand,  his  coat  replaced  by  a  worn  smok 
ing- jacket.  The  little  apartment  was  thick 
with  smoke,  and  from  a  room  on  the  right  came 

47 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  click  of  chips  and  the  sound  of  beer  mugs  on 
wood. 

Marie,  restored  to  good  humor,  came  out  to 
greet  them,  and  both  men  bowed  ceremoniously 
over  her  hand,  clicking  their  heels  together  and 
bowing  from  the  waist.  Byrne  sniffed. 

"What  do  I  smell,  Marie?"  he  demanded. 
"Surely  not  sausages!" 

Marie  dimpled.  It  was  an  old  joke,  to  be 
greeted  as  one  greets  an  old  friend.  It  was  al 
ways  sausages. 

"Sausages,  of  a  truth  —  fat  ones." 

"But  surely  not  with  mustard?" 

"Ach,  ja  —  englisch  mustard." 

Stewart  and  Boyer  had  gone  on  ahead.  Marie 
laid  a  detaining  hand  on  Byrne's  arm. 

"I  was  very  angry  with  you  to-day." 

"With  me?" 

Like  the  others  who  occasionally  gathered 
in  Stewart's  unconventional  menage,  Byrne  had 
adopted  Stewart's  custom  of  addressing  Marie 
in  English,  while  she  replied  in  her  own  tongue. 

"  Ja.  I  wished  but  to  see  nearer  the  American 
Fraulein's  hat,  and  you  —  She  is  rich,  so?" 

"I  really  don't  know.   I  think  not." 

"And  good?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

Marie  was  small;  she  stood,  her  head  back, 
her  eyes  narrowed,  looking  up  at  Byrne.  There 

48 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

was  nothing  evil  in  her  face,  it  was  not  even 
hard.  Rather,  there  was  a  sort  of  weariness,  as 
of  age  and  experience.  She  had  put  on  a  white 
dress,  cut  out  at  the  neck,  and  above  her  collar 
bones  were  small,  cuplike  hollows.  She  was 
very  thin. 

"I  was  sad  to-night,"  she  said  plaintively. 
"I  wished  to  jump  out  the  window." 

Byrne  was  startled,  but  the  girl  was  smiling 
at  the  recollection. 

"And  I  made  you  feel  like  that?" 

"  Not  you  —  the  other  Fraulein.  I  was  dirt 
to  her.  I  — "  She  stopped  tragically,  then 
sniffled. 

"The  sausages!"  she  cried,  and  gathering 
up  her  skirts  ran  toward  the  kitchen.  Byrne 
went  on  into  the  sitting-room. 

Stewart  was  a  single  man  spending  two  years 
in  post-graduate  work  in  Germany  and  Austria, 
not  so  much  because  the  Germans  and  Austrians 
could  teach  what  could  not  be  taught  at  home, 
but  because  of  the  wealth  of  clinical  material. 
The  great  European  hospitals,  filled  to  over 
flowing,  offered  unlimited  choice  of  cases.  The 
contempt  for  human  life  of  overpopulated  cities, 
coupled  with  the  extreme  poverty  and  help 
lessness  of  the  masses,  combined  to  form  that 
tragic  part  of  the  world  which  dies  that  others 
may  live. 

49 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Stewart,  like  Byrne,  was  doing  surgery,  and 
the  very  lack  of  fineness  which  Byrne  felt  in 
the  man  promised  something  in  his  work,  a  sort 
of  ruthlessness,  a  singleness  of  purpose,  good  or 
bad,  an  overwhelming  egotism  that  in  his  pro 
fession  might  only  be  a  necessary  self-reliance. 

His  singleness  of  purpose  had,  at  the  begin 
ning  of  his  residence  in  Vienna,  devoted  itself 
to  making  him  comfortable.  With  the  narrow 
means  at  his  control  he  had  the  choice  of  two 
alternatives:  To  live,  as  Byrne  was  living,  in  a 
third-class  pension,  stewing  in  summer,  freezing 
in  winter,  starving  always;  or  the  alternative 
he  had  chosen. 

The  Stewart  apartment  had  only  three  rooms, 
but  it  possessed  that  luxury  of  luxuries,  a  bath. 
It  was  not  a  bath  in  the  usual  sense  of  water 
on  tap,  and  shining  nickel  plate,  but  a  bath  for 
all  that,  where  with  premeditation  and  fore 
thought  one  might  bathe.  The  room  had  once 
been  a  fuel  and  store  room,  but  now  boasted 
a  tin  tub  and  a  stove  with  a  reservoir  on  top, 
where  water  might  be  heated  to  the  boiling 
point,  at  the  same  time  bringing  up  the  atmos 
phere  to  a  point  where  the  tin  tub  sizzled  if 
one  touched  it. 

Behind  the  bathroom  a  tiny  kitchen  with  a 
brick  stove;  next,  a  bedroom;  the  whole  in 
credibly  neat.  Along  one  side  of  the  wall  a 

50 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

clothespress,  which  the  combined  wardrobes  of 
two  did  not  fill.  And  beyond  that  again,  opening 
through  an  arch  with  a  dingy  chenille  curtain, 
the  sitting-room,  now  in  chaotic  disorder. 

Byrne  went  directly  to  the  sitting-room. 
There  were  four  men  already  there:  Stewart 
and  Boyer,  a  pathology  man  named  Wallace 
Hunter,  doing  research  work  at  the  general 
hospital,  and  a  young  piano  student  from 
Tennessee  named  MacLean.  The  cards  had 
been  already  dealt,  and  Byrne  stood  by  wait 
ing  for  the  hand  to  be  played. 

The  game  was  a  small  one,  as  befitted  the 
means  of  the  majority.  It  was  a  regular  Satur 
day  night  affair,  as  much  a  custom  as  the  beer 
that  sat  in  Steins  on  the  floor  beside  each  man, 
or  as  Marie's  boiled  Wiener  sausages. 

The  blue  chips  represented  a  Krone,  the 
white  ones  five  Hellers.  MacLean,  who  was 
hardly  more  than  a  boy,  was  winning,  drawing 
in  chips  with  quick  gestures  of  his  long  pianist's 
fingers. 

Byrne  sat  down  and  picked  up  his  cards. 
Stewart  was  staying  out,  and  so,  after  a  glance, 
did  he.  The  other  three  drew  cards  and  fell 
to  betting.  Stewart  leaned  back  and  filled  his 
long  pipe,  and  after  a  second's  hesitation  Byrne 
turned  to  him. 

"I  don't  know  just  what  to  say,  Stewart," 
51 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

he  began  in  an  undertone.  "I  'm  sorry.  I 
did  n't  want  to  hurt  Marie,  but  —  " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right."  Stewart  drew  at  his 
pipe  and  bent  forward  to  watch  the  game 
with  an  air  of  ending  the  discussion. 

"Not  at  all.  I  did  hurt  her  and  I  want  to 
explain.  Marie  has  been  kind  to  me,  and  I  like 
her.  You  know  that." 

"Don't  be  an  ass!"  Stewart  turned  on  him 
sharply.  "Marie  is  a  little  fool,  that's  all. 
I  did  n't  know  it  was  an  American  girl." 

Byrne  played  in  bad  luck.  His  mind  was  not 
on  the  cards.  He  stayed  out  of  the  last  hand, 
and  with  a  cigarette  wandered  about  the  room. 
He  glanced  into  the  tidy  bedroom  and  beyond, 
to  where  Marie  hovered  over  the  stove. 

She  turned  and  saw  him. 

"Come,"  she  called.  "Watch  the  supper  for 
me  while  I  go  down  for  more  beer." 

"But  no,"  he  replied,  imitating  her  tone. 
"Watch  the  supper  for  me  while  I  go  down  for 
more  beer." 

"I  love  thee,"  she  called  merrily.  "Tell  the 
Herr  Doktor  I  love  thee.  And  here  is  the 
pitcher." 

When  he  returned  the  supper  was  already 
laid  in  the  little  kitchen.  The  cards  were  put 
away,  and  young  MacLean  and  Wallace  Hunter 
were  replacing  the  cover  and  the  lamp  on  the 

52 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

card-table.  Stewart  was  orating  from  a  pinnacle 
of  proprietorship. 

"Exactly,"  he  was  saying,  in  reply  to  some 
thing  gone  before;  "I  used  to  come  here  Satur 
day  nights  —  used  to  come  early  and  take  a 
bath.  Worthington  had  rented  it  furnished  for 
a  song.  Used  to  sit  in  a  corner  and  envy  Worth 
ington  his  bathtub,  and  that  lamp  there,  and 
decent  food,  and  a  bed  that  did  n't  suffer  from 
necrosis  in  the  center.  Then  when  he  was  called 
home  I  took  it." 

"Girl  and  all,  wasn't  it?" 

"Girl  and  all.  Old  Worth  said  she  was 
straight,  and,  by  Jove,  she  is.  He  came  back 
last  fall  on  his  wedding  trip  —  he  married  a 
wealthy  girl  and  came  to  see  us.  I  was  out,  but 
Marie  was  here.  There  was  the  deuce  to  pay." 

He  lowered  his  voice.  The  men  had  gathered 
about  him  in  a  group. 

"Jealous,  eh?"   from  Hunter. 

"Jealous?  No!  He  tried  to  kiss  her  and  she 
hit  him  —  said  he  did  n't  respect  her!" 

"It's  a  curious  code  of  honor,"  said  Boyer 
thoughtfully.  And  indeed  to  none  but  Stewart 
did  it  seem  amusing.  This  little  girl  of  the  streets, 
driven  by  God  knows  what  necessity  to  make 
her  own  code  and,  having  made  it,  living  up  to 
it  with  every  fiber  of  her. 

"Bitte  zum  speisen!"  called  Marie  gayly 
53 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

from  her  brick  stove,  and  the  men  trooped  out 
to  the  kitchen. 

The  supper  was  spread  on  the  table,  with  the 
pitcher  of  beer  in  the  center.  There  were  Swiss 
cheese  and  cold  ham  and  rolls,  and  above  all 
sausages  and  mustard.  Peter  drank  a  great  deal 
of  beer,  as  did  the  others,  and  sang  German  songs 
with  a  frightful  accent  and  much  vigor  and  sen 
timent,  as  also  did  the  others. 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  cold  room  in  the 
Pension  Schwarz,  and  told  himself  he  was  a  fool 
to  live  alone  when  one  could  live  like  a  prince 
for  the  same  sum  properly  laid  out.  He  dropped 
into  the  hollow  center  of  his  bed,  where  his  big 
figure  fitted  as  comfortably  as  though  it  lay  in 
a  washtub,  and  before  his  eyes  there  came  a 
vision  of  Stewart's  flat  and  the  slippers  by  the 
fire  —  which  was  eminently  human. 

However,  a  moment  later  he  yawned,  and 
said  aloud,  with  considerable  vigor,  that  he  'd 
be  damned  if  he  would  —  which  was  eminently 
Peter  Byrne.  Almost  immediately,  with  the 
bed  coverings,  augmented  by  his  overcoat, 
drawn  snug  to  his  chin,  and  the  better  necktie 
swinging  from  the  gasjet  in  the  air  from  the 
opened  window,  Peter  was  asleep.  For  four 
hours  he  had  entirely  forgotten  Harmony. 


54 


CHAPTER  V 

peace  of  a  gray  Sunday  morning  hung 
A  like  a  cloud  over  the  little  Pension  Schwarz. 
In  the  kitchen  the  elderly  maid,  with  a  shawl 
over  her  shoulders  and  stiffened  fingers,  made 
the  fire,  while  in  the  dining-room  the  little 
chambermaid  cut  butter  and  divided  it  sparingly 
among  a  dozen  breakfast  trays  —  on  each  tray 
two  hard  rolls,  a  butter  pat,  a  plate,  a  cup. 
On  two  trays  Olga,  with  a  glance  over  her 
shoulder,  placed  two  butter  pats.  The  mistress 
yet  slept,  but  in  the  kitchen  Katrina  had  a  keen 
eye  for  butter  —  and  a  hard  heart. 

Katrina  came  to  the  door. 

"The  hot  water  is  ready,"  she  announced. 
"And  the  coffee  also.  Hast  thou  been  to  mass?" 

"Ja." 

"That  is  a  lie."  This  quite  on  general  prin 
ciple,  it  being  one  of  the  cook's  small  tyrannies 
to  exact  religious  observance  from  her  under 
ling,  and  one  of  Olga's  Sunday  morning's  indul 
gences  to  oversleep  and  avoid  the  mass.  Olga 
took  the  accusation  meekly  and  without  reply, 
being  occupied  at  that  moment  in  standing 
between  Katrina  and  the  extra  pats  of  butter. 

55 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"For  the  lie,"  said  Katrina  calmly,  "thou 
shall  have  no  butter  this  morning.  There,  the 
Herr  Doktor  rings  for  water.  Get  it,  wicked 
one!" 

Katrina  turned  slowly  in  the  doorway. 

"The  new  Fraulein  is  American?" 

"Ja." 

Katrina  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Then  I  shall  put  more  water  to  heat,"  she 
said  resignedly.  "The  Americans  use  much 
water.  God  knows  it  cannot  be  healthy!" 

Olga  filled  her  pitcher  from  the  great  copper 
kettle  and  stood  with  it  poised  in  her  thin 
young  arms. 

"The  new  Fraulein  is  very  beautiful,"  she 
continued  aloud.  "Thinkest  thou  it  is  the  hot 
water?" 

"Is  an  egg  more  beautiful  for  being  boiled?" 
demanded  Katrina.  "Go,  and  be  less  foolish. 
See,  it  is  not  the  Herr  Doktor  who  rings,  but 
the  new  American." 

Olga  carried  her  pitcher  to  Harmony's  door, 
and  being  bidden,  entered.  The  room  was 
frigid  and  Harmony,  at  the  window  in  her 
nightgown,  was  closing  the  outer  casement. 
The  inner  still  swung  open.  Olga,  having  put 
down  her  pitcher,  shivered. 

"Surely  the  Fraulein  has  not  slept  with  open 
windows?" 

56 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Always  with  open  windows."  Harmony, 
having  secured  the  inner  casement,  was  wrap 
ping  herself  in  the  blue  silk  kimono  with  the 
faded  butterflies.  Merely  to  look  at  it  made 
Olga  shiver  afresh.  She  shook  her  head. 

"But  the  air  of  the  night,"  she  said,  "it  is 
full  of  mists  and  illnesses !  Will  you  have  break 
fast  now?" 

"In  ten  minutes,  after  I  have  bathed." 

Olga  having  put  a  match  to  the  stove  went 
back  to  the  kitchen,  shaking  her  head. 

"They  are  strange,  the  Americans!"  she  said 
to  Katrina.  "And  if  to  be  lovely  one  must 
bathe  daily,  and  sleep  with  open  windows  - 

Harmony  had  slept  soundly  after  all.  Her 
pique  at  Byrne  had  passed  with  the  reading  of 
his  note,  and  the  sensation  of  his  protection  and 
nearness  had  been  almost  physical.  In  the 
virginal  little  apartment  in  the  lodge  of  Maria 
Theresa  the  only  masculine  presence  had  been 
that  of  the  Portier,  carrying  up  coals  at  ninety 
Hellers  a  bucket,  or  of  the  accompanist  who 
each  alternate  day  had  played  for  the  Big 
Soprano  to  practice.  And  they  had  felt  no 
deprivation,  except  for  those  occasional  times 
when  Scatchy  developed  a  reckless  wish  to 
see  the  interior  of  a  dancing-hall  or  one 
of  the  little  theaters  that  opened  after  the 
opera. 

57 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

But,  as  calmly  as  though  she  had  never  argued 
alone  with  a  cabman  or  disputed  the  bill  at  the 
delicatessen  shop,  Harmony  had  thrown  herself 
on  the  protection  of  this  shabby  big  American 
whom  she  had  met  but  once,  and,  having  done 
so,  slept  like  a  baby.  Not,  of  course,  that  she 
realized  her  dependence.  She  had  felt  very  old 
and  experienced  and  exceedingly  courageous 
as  she  put  out  her  light  the  night  before  and 
took  a  flying  leap  into  the  bed.  She  was  still 
old  and  experienced,  if  a  trifle  less  courageous, 
that  Sunday  morning. 

Promptly  in  ten  minutes  Olga  brought  the 
breakfast,  two  rolls,  two  pats  of  butter  — 
shades  of  the  sleeping  mistress  and  Katrina 
the  thrifty  —  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  On  the  tray 
was  a  bit  of  paper  torn  from  a  notebook :  —  « 

"Part  of  the  prescription  is  an  occasional 
walk  in  good  company.  Will  you  walk  with  me 
this  afternoon?  I  would  come  in  person  to  ask 
you,  but  am  spending  the  morning  in  my  bath 
robe,  while  my  one  remaining  American  suit  is 
being  pressed. 

"P.  B." 

Harmony  got  the  ink  and  her  pen  from  her 
trunk  and  wrote  below :  - 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me.   Yes,  indeed. 

"II.  W." 

58 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

When  frequent  slamming  of  doors  and  steps 
along  the  passageway  told  Harmony  that  the 
pension  was  fully  awake,  she  got  out  her  violin. 
The  idea  of  work  obsessed  her.  To-morrow 
there  would  be  the  hunt  for  something  to  do  to 
supplement  her  resources,  this  afternoon  she 
had  rashly  promised  to  walk.  The  morning, 
then,  must  be  given  up  to  work.  But  after  all 
she  did  little. 

For  an  hour,  perhaps,  she  practiced.  The  little 
Bulgarian  paused  outside  her  door  and  listened, 
rapt,  his  eyes  closed.  Peter  Byrne,  listening 
while  he  sorted  lecture  memoranda  at  his  little 
table  in  bathrobe  and  slippers,  absently  filed 
the  little  note  with  the  others  —  where  he  came 
across  it  months  later  —  next  to  a  lecture  on 
McBurney's  Point,  and  spent  a  sad  hour  or 
so  over  it.  Over  all  the  sordid  little  pension, 
with  its  odors  of  food  and  stale  air,  its  spotted 
napery  and  dusty  artificial  flowers,  the  music 
hovered,  and  made  for  the  time  all  things  lovely. 

In  her  room  across  from  Harmony's,  Anna 
Gates  was  sewing,  or  preparing  to  sew.  Her 
hair  in  a  knob,  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  the  room 
in  violent  disorder,  she  was  bending  over  the 
bed,  cutting  savagely  at  a  roll  of  pink  flannel. 
Because  she  was  working  with  curved  surgeon's 
scissors,  borrowed  from  Peter,  the  cut  edges 
were  strangely  scalloped.  Her  method  as  well 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

as  her  tools  was  unique.  Clearly  she  was  intent 
on  a  body  garment,  for  now  and  then  she  picked 
up  the  flannel  and  held  it  to  her.  Having  thus, 
as  one  may  say,  got  the  line  of  the  thing,  she 
proceeded  to  cut  again,  jaw  tight  set,  small 
veins  on  her  forehead  swelling,  a  small  replica 
of  Peter  Byrne  sewing  a  button  on  his  coat. 

After  a  time  it  became  clear  to  her  that  her 
method  was  wrong.  She  rolled  up  the  flannel 
viciously  and  flung  it  into  a  corner,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  her  Sunday  morning  occupation  of 
putting  away  the  garments  she  had  worn  during 
the  week,  a  vast  and  motley  collection. 

On  the  irritability  of  her  mood  Harmony's 
music  had  a  late  but  certain  effect.  She  made 
a  toilet,  a  trifle  less  casual  than  usual,  seeing 
that  she  put  on  her  stays,  and  rather  sheepishly 
picked  up  the  bundle  from  the  corner.  She 
hunted  about  for  a  thimble,  being  certain  she 
had  brought  one  from  home  a  year  before,  but 
failed  to  find  it.  And  finally,  bundle  under  her 
arm  and  smiling,  she  knocked  at  Harmony's 
door. 

"Would  you  mind  letting  me  sit  with  you?" 
she  asked.  "I'll  not  stir.  I  want  to  sew,  and 
my  room  is  such  a  mess ! " 

Harmony  threw  the  door  wide.  :'You  will 
make  me  very  happy,  if  only  my  practicing 
does  not  disturb  you." 

CO 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Dr.  Gates  came  in  and  closed  the  door. 

"I'll  probably  be  the  disturbing  element," 
she  said.  "I'm  a  noisy  sewer." 

Harmony's  immaculate  room  and  radiant 
person  put  her  in  good  humor  immediately. 
She  borrowed  a  thimble  —  not  because  she 
cared  whether  she  had  one  or  not,  but  because 
she  knew  a  thimble  was  a  part  of  the  game  — 
and  settled  herself  in  a  corner,  her  ragged  pieces 
in  her  lap.  For  an  hour  she  plodded  along  and 
Harmony  played.  Then  the  girl  put  down  her 
bow  and  turned  to  the  corner.  The  little  doctor 
was  jerking  at  a  knot  in  her  thread. 

"It's  in  the  most  damnable  knot!"  she  said, 
and  Harmony  was  suddenly  aware  that  she  was 
crying,  and  heartily  ashamed  of  it. 

"Please  don't  pay  any  attention  to  me,"  she 
implored.  "I  hate  to  sew.  That's  the  trouble. 
Or  perhaps  it's  not  all  the  trouble.  I'm  a  fool 
about  music." 

"Perhaps,  if  you  hate  to  sew  - 

"I  hate  a  good  many  things,  my  dear,  when 
you  play  like  that.  I  hate  being  over  here  in  this 
place,  and  I  hate  fleas  and  German  cooking  and 
clinics,  and  I  hate  being  forty  years  old  and  as 
poor  as  a  church-mouse  and  as  ugly  as  sin,  and 
I  hate  never  having  had  any  children!" 

Harmony  was  very  uncomfortable  and  just 
a  little  shocked.  But  the  next  moment  Dr. 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Gates  had  wiped  her  eyes  with  a  scrap  of  the 
flannel  and  was  smiling  up  through  her  glasses. 

"The  plain  truth  really  is  that  I  have  in 
digestion.  I  dare  say  I  'm  really  weeping  in  anti 
cipation  over  the  Sunday  dinner!  The  food's 
bad  and  I  can't  afford  to  live  anywhere  else. 
I  'd  take  a  room  and  do  my  own  cooking,  but 
what  time  have  I?"  She  spread  out  the  pieces 
of  flannel  on  her  knee.  "Does  this  look  like 
anything  to  you?" 

"A  petticoat,  is  n't  it?" 

"I  did  n't  intend  it  as  a  petticoat." 

"I  thought,  on  account  of  the  scallops — ' 

"Scallops!"  Dr.  Gates  gazed  at  the  painfully 
cut  pink  edges  and  from  them  to  Harmony. 
Then  she  laughed,  peal  after  peal  of  joyous 
mirth. 

"Scallops!"  she  gasped  at  last.  "Oh,  my 
dear,  if  you  'd  seen  me  cutting  'em !  And  with 
Peter  Byrne's  scissors!" 

Now  here  at  last  they  were  on  common 
ground.  Harmony,  delicately  flushed,  repeated 
the  name,  clung  to  it  conversationally,  using 
little  adroitnesses  to  bring  the  talk  back  to 
him.  All  roads  of  talk  led  to  Peter  —  Peter's 
future,  Peter's  poverty,  Peter's  refusing  to  have 
his  hair  cut,  Peter's  encounter  with  a  major  of 
the  guards,  and  the  duel  Peter  almost  fought. 
It  developed  that  Peter,  as  the  challenged,  had 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

had  the  choice  of  weapons,  and  had  chosen 
fists,  and  that  the  major  had  been  carried  away. 
Dr.  Gates  grew  rather  weary  of  Peter  at  last 
and  fell  back  on  the  pink  flannel.  She  con 
fided  to  Harmony  that  the  various  pieces, 
united,  were  to  make  a  dressing-gown  for  a 
little  American  boy  at  the  hospital.  "Al 
though,"  she  commented,  "it  looks  more  like  a 
chair  cover." 

Harmony  offered  to  help  her,  and  got  out  a 
sewing-box  that  was  lined  with  a  piece  of  her 
mother's  wedding  dress.  And  as  she  straight 
ened  the  crooked  edges  she  told  the  doctor  about 
the  wedding  dress,  and  about  the  mother  who 
had  called  her  Harmony  because  of  the  hope  in 
her  heart.  And  soon,  by  dint  of  skillful  listen 
ing,  which  is  always  better  than  questioning, 
the|  faded  little  woman  doctor  knew  all  the 
story. 

She  was  rather  aghast. 

"But  suppose  you  cannot  find  anything  to 
do?" 

"I  must,"  simply. 

"It's  such  a  terrible  city  for  a  girl  alona." 

"I'm  not  really  alone.   I  know  you  now." 

"An  impoverished  spinster!  Much  help  I 
shall  be!" 

"And  there  is  Peter  Byrne." 

„" Peter!"  Dr.  Gates  sniffed.  " Peter  is  poorer 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

than  I  am,  if  there  is  any  comparison  in  desti 
tution!" 

Harmony  stiffened  a  trifle. 

"Of  course  I  do  not  mean  money,"  she  said. 
"There  are  such  things  as  encouragement,  and 
—  and  friendliness." 

"One  cannot  eat  encouragement,"  retorted 
Dr.  Gates  sagely.  "And  friendliness  between 
you  and  any  man  —  bah !  Even  Peter  is  only 
human,  my  dear." 

"I  am  sure  he  is  very  good." 

"So  he  is.  He  is  very  poor.  But  you  are 
very  attractive.  There,  I  'm  a  skeptic  about 
men,  but  you  can  trust  Peter.  Only  don't  fall 
in  love  with  him.  It  will  be  years  before  he 
can  marry.  And  don't  let  him  fall  in  love  with 
you.  He  probably  will." 

Whereupon  Dr.  Gates  taking  herself  and  her 
pink  flannel  off  to  prepare  for  lunch,  Harmony 
sent  a  formal  note  to  Peter  Byrne,  regretting 
that  a  headache  kept  her  from  taking  the 
afternoon  walk  as  she  had  promised.  Also, 
to  avoid  meeting  him,  she  did  without  dinner, 
and  spent  the  afternoon  crying  herself  into  a 
headache  that  was  real  enough. 

Anna  Gates  was  no  fool.  While  she  made  her 
few  preparations  for  dinner  she  repented  bitterly 
what  she  had  said  to  Harmony.  It  is  difficult 
for  the  sophistry  of  forty  to  remember  and  cher- 

64 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

ish  the  innocence  of  twenty.  For  illusions  it  is 
apt  to  substitute  facts,  the  material  for  the 
spiritual,  the  body  against  the  soul.  Dr.  Gates, 
from  her  school  of  general  practice,  had  come 
to  view  life  along  physiological  lines. 

With  her  customary  frankness  she  approached 
Peter  after  the  meal. 

"I've  been  making  mischief,  Peter.  I  have 
been  talking  too  much,  as  usual." 

"Certainly  not  about  me,  Doctor.  Out  of 
my  blameless  life  — 

"About  you,  as  a  representative  member  of 
your  sex.  I  'm  a  fool." 

Peter  looked  serious.  He  had  put  on  the  newly 
pressed  suit  and  his  best  tie,  and  was  looking 
distinguished  and  just  now  rather  stern. 

"To  whom?" 

"To  the  young  Wells  person.  Frankly,  Peter, 
I  dare  say  at  this  moment  she  thinks  you  are 
everything  you  should  n't  be,  because  I  said 
you  were  only  human.  Why  it  should  be  evil 
to  be  human,  or  human  to  be  evil  - 
;  "I  cannot  imagine,"  said  Peter  slowly,  "the 
reason  for  any  conversation  about  me." 

"Nor  I,  when  I  look  back.  We  seemed  to 
talk  about  other  things,  but  it  always  ended  with 
you.  Perhaps  you  were  our  one  subject  in 
common.  Then  she  irritated  me  by  her  calm 
confidence.  The  world  was  good,  everybody  was 

65 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

good.  She  would  find  a  safe  occupation  and  all 
would  be  well." 

"So  you  warned  her  against  me,"  said  Peter 
grimly. 

"I  told  her  you  were  human  and  that  she  was 
attractive.  Shall  I  make  'way  with  myself?" 

"Cui  bono?"  demanded  Peter,  smiling  in 
spite  of  himself.  "The  mischief  is  done." 

Dr.  Gates  looked  up  at  him. 

"I'm  in  love  with  you  myself,  Peter!"  she 
said  gratefully.  "Perhaps  it  is  the  tie.  Did  you 
ever  eat  such  a  meal?" 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  VERY  pale  and  dispirited  Harmony  it 
was  who  bathed  her  eyes  in  cold  water 
that  evening  and  obeyed  little  Olga's  "Bitte 
zum  speisen."  The  chairs  round  the  dining- 
table  were  only  half  occupied  —  a  free  concert 
had  taken  some,  Sunday  excursions  others. 
The  little  Bulgarian,  secretly  considered  to 
be  a  political  spy,  was  never  about  on 
this  one  evening  of  the  week.  Rumor  had 
it  that  on  these  evenings,  secreted  in  an 
attic  room  far  off  in  the  sixteenth  district,  he 
wrote  and  sent  off  reports  of  what  he  had 
learned  during  the  week  —  his  gleanings  from 
near-by  tables  in  coffee-houses  or  from  the 
indiscreet  hours  after  midnight  in  the  cafe, 
where  the  Austrian  military  was  wont  to  gather 
and  drink. 

Into  the  empty  chair  beside  Harmony  Peter 
slid  his  long  figure,  and  met  a  tremulous  bow 
and  silence.  From  the  head  of  the  table  Frau 
Schwarz  was  talking  volubly  —  as  if,  by  mere 
sound,  to  distract  attention  from  the  scantiness 
of  the  meal.  Under  cover  of  the  Babel  Peter 
spoke  to  the  girl.  Having  had  his  warning  his 

67 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

tone  was  friendly,  without  a  hint  of  the  intimacy 
of  the  day  before. 

"Better?" 

"Not  entirely.   Somewhat." 

"I  wish  you  had  sent  Olga  to  me  for  some 
tablets.  No  one  needs  to  suffer  from  head 
ache,  when  five  grains  or  so  of  powder  will 
help  them." 

"I  am  afraid  of  headache  tablets." 

"Not  when  your  physician  prescribes  them, 
I  hope!" 

This  was  the  right  note.  Harmony  brightened 
a  little.  After  all,  what  had  she  to  do  with  the 
man  himself?  He  had  constituted  himself  her 
physician.  That  was  all. 

"The  next  time  I  shall  send  Olga." 

"Good!"  he  responded  heartily;  and  pro 
ceeded  to  make  such  a  meal  as  he  might,  talk 
ing  little,  and  nursing,  by  a  careful  indifference, 
her  new-growing  confidence. 

It  was  when  he  had  pushed  his  plate  away  and 
lighted  a  cigarette  —  according  to  the  custom 
of  the  pension,  which  accorded  the  "Nicht 
Rauchen"  sign  the  same  attention  that  it  did 
to  the  portrait  of  the  deceased  Herr  Schwarz  — 
that  he  turned  to  her  again. 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  not  able  to  walk.  It 
promises  a  nice  night." 

Peter  was  clever.  Harmony,  expecting  an  in- 
68 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

vitation  to  'walk,  had  nerved  herself  to  a  cool 
refusal.  This  took  her  off  guard. 

"Then  you  do  not  prescribe  air?" 

"That's  up  to  how  you  feel.  If  you  care  to  go 
out  and  don't  mind  my  going  along  as  a  sort 
of  Old  Dog  Tray  I  have  n't  anything  else  to 
do." 

Dr.  Gates,  eating  stewed  fruit  across  the 
table,  gave  Peter  a  swift  glance  of  admiration, 
which  he  caught  and  acknowledged.  He  was 
rathe^*  exultant  himself;  certainly  he  had  been 
adroit. 

"I'd  rather  like  a  short  walk.  It  will  make 
me  sleep,"  said  Harmony,  who  had  missed  the 
by-play.  "And  Old  Dog  Tray  would  be  a  very 
nice  companion,  I'm  sure." 

It  is  doubtful,  however,  if  Anna  Gates  would 
have  applauded  Peter  had  she  followed  the 
two  in  their  rambling  walk  that  night.  Direction 
mattering  little  and  companionship  every 
thing,  they  wandered  on,  talking  of  immaterial 
things  —  of  the  rough  pavements,  of  the  shop 
windows,  of  the  gray  mediaeval  buildings.  They 
came  to  a  full  stop  in  front  of  the  Votivkirche, 
and  discussed  gravely  the  twin  Gothic  spires 
and  the  Benk  sculptures  on  the  facade.  And 
there  in  the  open  square,  casting  diplomacy  to 
the  winds,  Peter  Byrne  turned  to  Harmony  and 
blurted  out  what  was  in  his  heart. 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "you  don't  care  a  rap 
about  spires.  I  don't  believe  you  know  anything 
about  them.  I  don't.  What  did  that  idiot  of 
a  woman  doctor  say  to  you  to-day?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"You  do  very  well.  And  I'm  going  to  set 
you  right.  She  starts  out  with  two  premises: 
I  'm  a  man,  and  you  're  young  and  attractive. 
Then  she  draws  some  sort  of  fool  deduction. 
You  know  what  I  mean?" 

"I  don't  see  why  we  need  discuss  it,"  said 
poor  Harmony.  "Or  how  you  know  — " 

"I  know  because  she  told  me.  She  knew  she 
had  been  a  fool,  and  she  came  to  me.  I  don't 
know  whether  it  makes  any  difference  to  you 
or  not,  but  —  we  'd  started  out  so  well,  and  then 
to  have  it  spoiled !  My  dear  girl,  you  are  beau 
tiful  and  I  know  it.  That 's  all  the  more  reason 
why,  if  you  '11  stand  for  it,  you  need  some  one  to 
look  after  you  —  I  '11  not  say  like  a  brother, 
because  all  the  ones  I  ever  knew  were  darned 
poor  brothers  to  their  sisters,  but  some  one  who 
»  will  keep  an  eye  on  you  and  who  is  n't  going  to 
I  fall  in  love  with  you." 

"I  did  n't  think  you  were  falling  in  love  with 
me;  nor  did  I  wish  you  to." 

"Certainly  not.  Besides,  I — "  Here  Peter 
Byrne  had  another  inspiration,  not  so  good  as 
the  first  —  "Besides,  there  is  somebody  at  home, 

70 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

you    understand?     That    makes    it    all    right, 
doesn't  it?" 

"A  girl  at  home?" 

"A  girl,"  said  Peter,  lying  manfully. 

"How  very  nice!"  said  Harmony,  and  put 
out  her  hand.  Peter,  feeling  all  sorts  of  a  cheat, 
took  it,  and  got  his  reward  in  a  complete 
restoral  of  their  former  comradely  relations. 
From  abstractions  of  church  towers  and  street 
paving  they  went,  with  the  directness  of  the 
young,  to  themselves.  Thereafter,  during  that 
memorable  walk,  they  talked  blissful  person 
alities,  Harmony's  future,  Peter's  career,  money 
—  or  its  lack  —  their  ambitions,  their  hopes, 
even  —  and  here  was  intimacy,  indeed !  —  their 
disappointments,  their  failures  of  courage,  their 
occasional  loss  of  faith  in  themselves. 

The  first  real  snow  of  the  year  was  falling 
as  they  turned  back  toward  the  Pension 
Schwarz,  a  damp  snow  that  stuck  fast  and 
melted  with  a  chilly  cold  that  had  in  it  nothing 
but  depression.  The  upper  spires  of  the  Votiv- 
kirche  were  hidden  in  a  gray  mist;  the  trees  in 
the  park  took  on,  against  the  gloom  of  the  city 
hall,  a  snowy  luminosity.  Save  for  an  occasional 
pedestrian,  making  his  way  home  under  an 
umbrella,  the  streets  were  deserted.  Byrne 
and  Harmony  had  no  umbrella,  but  the  girl 
rejected  his  offer  of  a  taxicab. 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"We  should  be  home  too  quickly,"  she  ob 
served  naively.  "And  we  have  so  much  to 
say  about  me.  Now  I  thought  that  perhaps 
by  giving  English  lessons  in  the  afternoon  and 
working  all  morning  at  my  music  — " 

And  so  on  and  on,  square  after  square, 
with  Peter  listening  gravely,  his  head  bent. 
And  square  after  square  it  was  borne  in 
on  him  what  a  precarious  future  stretched  be 
fore  this  girl  beside  him,  how  very  slender 
her  resources,  how  more  than  dubious  the  out 
come. 

Poverty,  which  had  only  stimulated  Peter 
Byrne  in  the  past,  ate  deep  into  his  soul  that 
night. 

Epochmaking  as  the  walk  had  been,  seeing 
that  it  had  reestablished  a  friendship  and  made 
a  working  basis  for  future  comradely  relations, 
they  were  back  at  the  corner  of  the  Alserstrasse 
before  ten.  As  they  turned  in  at  the  little  street, 
a  man,  lurching  somewhat,  almost  collided  with 
Harmony.  He  was  a  short,  heavy-set  person 
with  a  carefully  curled  mustache,  and  he  was 
singing,  not  loudly,  but  with  all  his  maudlin 
heart  in  his  voice,  the  barcarolle  from  the 
"Tales"  of  Hoffmann.  He  saw  Harmony,  and 
still  singing  planted  himself  in  her  path.  When 
Byrne  would  have  pushed  him  aside  Harmony 
caught  his  arm. 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"It  is  only  the  Portier  from  the  lodge,"  she 
said. 

The  Portier,  having  come  to  rest  on  a  throaty 
and  rather  wavering  note,  stood  before  Har 
mony,  bowing. 

"The  Fraulein  has  gone  and  I  am  very  sad," 
he  said  thickly.  "There  is  no  more  music,  and 
Rosa  has  run  away  with  a  soldier  from  Salz 
burg  who  has  only  one  lung." 

"But  think!"  Harmony  said  in  German. 
"No  more  practicing  in  the  early  dawn,  no 
young  ladies  bringing  mud  into  your  new- 
scrubbed  hall!  It  is  better,  is  it  not?  All  day 
you  may  rest  and  smoke!" 

Byrne  led  Harmony  past  the  drunken  Por 
tier,  who  turned  with  caution  and  bowed  after 
them. 

"Gute  Nacht,"  he  called.  "Kuss  die  Hand, 
Fraulein.  Four  rooms  and  the  salon  and  a  bath 
of  the  finest." 

As  they  went  up  the  Hirschengasse  they 
could  hear  him  pursuing  his  unsteady  way 
down  the  street  and  singing  lustily.  At  the 
door  of  the  Pension  Schwarz  Harmony  paused. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  ask  one  question?" 

:'You  honor  me,  madam." 

"Then  —  what  is  the  name  of  the  girl  back 
home?" 

Peter   Byrne   was   suddenly   conscious  of  a 
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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

complete  void  as  to  feminine  names.  He  offered, 
in  a  sort  of  panic,  the  first  one  he  recalled :  — 

"Emma." 

"Emma!  What  a  nice,  old-fashioned  name!" 
But  there  was  a  touch  of  disappointment  in 
her  voice. 

Harmony  had  a  lesson  the  next  day.  She  was 
a  favorite  pupil  with  the  master.  Out  of  so 
much  musical  chaff  he  winnowed  only  now  and 
then  a  grain  of  real  ability.  And  Harmony 
had  that.  Scatchy  and  the  Big  Soprano  had 
been  right  —  she  had  the  real  thing. 

The  short  half-hour  lesson  had  a  way  with 
Harmony  of  lengthening  itself  to  an  hour  or 
more,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the  lady  secretary 
in  the  anteroom.  On  that  Monday  Harmony 
had  pleased  the  old  man  to  one  of  his  rare 
enthusiasms. 

"Six  months,"  he  said,  "and  you  will  go  back 
to  your  America  and  show  them  how  over  here 
we  teach  violin.  I  will  a  letter  —  letters  —  give 
you,  and  you  shall  put  on  the  programme,  of 

your  concerts  that  you  are  my  pupil,  is  it  not 

•)  >» 
sor 

Harmony  was  drawing  on  her  worn  gloves; 
her  hands  trembled  a  little  with  the  praise  and 
excitement. 

"If  I  can  stay  so  long,"  she  answered  un 
steadily. 

74 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"  You  must  stay.  Have  I  so  long  labored,  and 
now  before  it  is  finished  you  talk  of  going! 
Gott  im  Himmel!" 

"It  is  a  matter  of  money.  My  father  is  dead. 
And  unless  I  find  something  to  do  I  shall  have 
to  go  back." 

The  master  had  heard  many  such  statements. 
They  never  ceased  to  rouse  his  ire  against  a 
world  that  had  money  for  everything  but 
music.  He  spent  five  minutes  in  indignant 
protest,  then :  — 

"But  you  are  clever  and  young,  child.  You 
will  find  a  way  to  stay.  Perhaps  I  can  now  and 
then  find  a  concert  for  you."  It  was  a  lure  he 
had  thrown  out  before,  a  hook  without  a  bait. 
It  needed  no  bait,  being  always  eagerly  swal 
lowed.  "And  no  more  talk  of  going  away. 
I  refuse  to  allow.  You  shall  not  go." 

Harmony  paid  the  lady  secretary  on  her  way 
out.  The  master  was  interested.  He  liked 
Harmony  and  he  believed  in  her.  But  fifty 
Kronen  is  fifty  Kronen,  and  South  American 
beef  is  high  of  price.  He  followed  Harmony  into 
the  outer  room  and  bowed  her  out  of  his  studio. 

"The  Fraulein  has  paid?"  he  demanded, 
turning  sharply  to  the  lady  secretary. 

"Always." 

"After  the  lesson?" 

"Ja,  Herr  Professor." 
75 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"It  is  better,"  said  the  master,  "that  she 
pay  hereafter  before  the  lesson." 

"  Ja,  Herr  Professor." 

Whereupon  the  lady  secretary  put  a  red-ink 
cross  before  Harmony's  name.  There  were 
many  such  crosses  on  the  ledger. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FOR  three  days  Byrne  hardly  saw  Harmony. 
He  was  off  early  in  the  morning,  hurried 
back  to  the  midday  meal  and  was  gone  again 
the  moment  it  was  over.  He  had  lectures  in 
the  evenings,  too,  and  although  he  lingered  for 
an  hour  or  so  after  supper  it  was  to  find  Har 
mony  taken  possession  of  by  the  little  Bul 
garian,  seized  with  a  sudden  thirst  for  things 
American. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  he  had 
left  Harmony,  enmeshed  and  helpless  in  a 
tangle  of  language,  trying  to  explain  to  the 
little  Bulgarian  the  reason  American  women 
wished  to  vote.  Byrne  flung  down  the  stairs 
and  out  into  the  street,  almost  colliding  with 
Stewart. 

They  walked  on  together,  Stewart  with  the 
comfortably  rolling  gait  of  the  man  who  has 
just  dined  well,  Byrne  with  his  heavy,  rather 
solid  tread.  The  two  men  were  not  congenial, 
and  the  frequent  intervals  without  speech  be 
tween  them  were  rather  for  lack  of  understand 
ing  than  for  that  completeness  of  it  which  often 
fathers  long  silences. 

77 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Byrne  was  the  first  to  speak  after  their 
greeting. 

"Marie  all  right?" 

"Fine.  Said  if  I  saw  you  to  ask  you  to  supper 
some  night  this  week." 

"Thanks.   Does  it  matter  which  night?" 

"Any  but  Thursday.  We're  hearing  'La 
Boheme.' " 

"Say  Friday,  then." 

Byrne's  tone  lacked  enthusiasm,  but  Stew 
art  in  his  after-dinner  mood  failed  to  notice 
it. 

"Have  you  thought  any  more  about  our 
conversation  of  the  other  night?" 

"What  was  that?" 

Stewart  poked  him  playfully  in  the  ribs. 

"Wake  up,  Byrne!"  he  said.  "You  remember 
well  enough.  Neither  the  Days  nor  any  one 
else  is  going  to  have  the  benefit  of  your  assist 
ance  if  you  go  on  living  the  way  you  have  been. 
I  was  at  Schwarz's.  It  is  the  double  drain  there 
that  tells  on  one  —  eating  little  and  being  eaten 
much.  Those  old  walls  are  full  of  vermin.  Why 
don't  you  take  our  apartment?" 

"Yours?" 

"Yes,  for  a  couple  of  months.  I'm  through 
with  Schleich  and  Breidau  can't  take  me  for 
two  months.  It's  Marie's  off  season  and  we're 
going  to  Semmering  for  the  winter  sports. 

78 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

We  're  ahead  enough  to  take  a  holiday.  And  if 
you  want  the  flat  for  the  same  amount  you  are 
spending  now,  or  less,  you  can  have  it,  and 
—  a  home,  old  man." 

Byrne  was  irritated,  the  more  so  that  he  real 
ized  that  the  offer  tempted  him.  To  his  resent 
ment  was  added  a  contempt  of  himself. 

"Thanks,"  he  said.   "I  think  not." 

"Oh,  all  right."  Stewart  was  rather  offended. 
"I  can't  do  more  than  give  you  a  chance." 

They  separated  shortly  after  and  Byrne 
went  on  alone.  The  snow  of  Sunday  had  turned 
to  a  fine  rain  which  had  lasted  all  of  Monday 
and  Tuesday.  The  sidewalks  were  slimy;  wagons 
slid  in  the  ooze  of  the  streets;  and  the  smoke 
from  the  little  stoves  in  the  street-cars  followed 
them  in  depressing  horizontal  clouds.  Cabmen 
sat  and  smoked  in  the  interior  of  musty  cabs. 
The  women  hod-carriers  on  a  new  building 
steamed  like  horses  as  they  worked. 

Byrne  walked  along,  his  head  thrust  down 
into  his  up- turned  collar;  moisture  gathered  on 
his  face  like  dew,  condensed  rather  than  pre 
cipitated.  And  as  he  walked  there  came  before 
him  a  vision  of  the  little  flat  on  the  Kochgasse, 
with  the  lamp  on  the  table,  and  the  general  air 
of  warmth  and  cheer,  and  a  figure  presiding 
over  the  brick  stove  in  the  kitchen.  Byrne 
shook  himself  like  a  great  dog  and  turned  in  at 

79 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  gate  of  the  hospital.  He  was  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  himself. 

That  week  was  full  of  disappointments  for 
Harmony.  Wherever  she  turned  she  faced 
a  wall  of  indifference  or,  what  was  worse,  an 
interest  that  frightened  her.  Like  a  bird  in  a 
cage  she  beat  helplessly  against  barriers  of 
language,  of  strange  customs,  of  stolidity  that 
were  not  far  from  absolute  cruelty. 

She  held  to  her  determination,  however,  at 
first  with  hope,  then,  as  the  pension  in  advance 
and  the  lessons  at  fifty  Kronen  —  also  in  ad 
vance,  —  went  on,  recklessly.  She  played  mar- 
velously  those  days,  crying  out  through  her 
violin  the  despair  she  had  sealed  her  lips  against. 
On  Thursday,  playing  for  the  master,  she  turned 
to  find  him  flourishing  his  handkerchief,  and 
went  home  in  a  sort  of  daze,  incredulous  that 
she  could  have  moved  him  to  tears. 

The  little  Bulgarian  was  frankly  her  slave 
now.  He  had  given  up  the  coffee-houses  that  he 
might  spend  that  hour  near  her,  on  the  chance 
of  seeing  her  or,  failing  that,  of  hearing  her 
play.  At  night  in  the  Cafe  Hungaria  he  sat  for 
hours  at  a  time,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  a  bot 
tle  of  native  wine  before  him,  and  dreamed  of 
her.  He  was  very  fat,  the  little  Georgiev,  very 
swarthy,  very  pathetic.  The  Balkan  kettle  was 
simmering  in  those  days,  and  he  had  been  set 

80 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  watch  the  fire.  But  instead  he  had  kindled  a 
flame  of  his  own,  and  was  feeding  it  with  stray 
words,  odd  glances,  a  bit  of  music,  the  curve 
of  a  woman's  hair  behind  her  ears.  For  reports 
he  wrote  verses  in  modern  Greek,  and  through 
one  of  those  inadvertences  which  make  tragedy, 
the  Minister  of  War  down  in  troubled  Bulgaria 
once  received  between  the  pages  of  a  report  in 
cipher  on  the  fortifications  of  the  Danube  a 
verse  in  fervid  hexameter  that  made  even  that 
grim  official  smile. 

Harmony  was  quite  unconscious.  She  went 
on  her  way  methodically:  so  many  hours  of 
work,  so  many  lessons  at  fifty  Kronen,  so  many 
afternoons  searching  for  something  to  do, 
making  rounds  of  shops  where  her  English  might 
be  valuable. 

And  after  a  few  weeks  Peter  Byrne  found  time 
to  help.  After  one  experience,  when  Harmony 
left  a  shop  with  flaming  face  and  tears  in  her 
eyes,  he  had  thought  it  best  to  go  with  her. 
The  first  interview,  under  Peter's  grim  eyes, 
was  a  failure.  The  shopkeeper  was  obviously 
suspicious  of  Peter.  After  that,  whenever  he 
could  escape  from  clinics,  Peter  went  along, 
but  stayed  outside,  smoking  his  eternal  cigarette, 
and  keeping  a  watchful  eye  on  things  inside  the 
shop. 

Only  once  was  he  needed.  At  that  time,  sus- 
81 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

peeling  that  all  was  not  well,  from  the  girl's  eyes 
and  the  leer  on  the  shopkeeper's  face,  he  had 
opened  the  door  in  time  to  hear  enough.  He 
had  lifted  the  proprietor  bodily  and  flung  him 
with  a  crash  into  a  glass  showcase  of  orna 
ments  for  the  hair.  Then,  entirely  cheerful 
and  happy,  and  unmolested  by  the  frightened 
clerks,  he  led  Harmony  outside  and  in  a  sort  of 
atavistic  triumph  bought  her  a  bunch  of  valley 
lilies. 

Nevertheless,  in  his  sane  moments,  Peter 
knew  that  things  were  very  bad,  indeed.  He 
was  still  not  in  love  with  the  girl.  He  analyzed 
his  own  feeling  very  carefully,  and  that  was  his 
conclusion.  Nevertheless  he  did  a  quixotic 
thing  —  which  was  Peter,  of  course,  all  over. 

He  took  supper  with  Stewart  and  Marie  on 
Friday,  and  the  idea  came  to  him  there.  Hardly 
came  to  him,  being  Marie's  originally.  The  little 
flat  was  cozy  and  bright.  Marie,  having  straight 
ened  her  kitchen,  brought  in  a  waist  she  was 
making  and  sat  sewing  while  the  two  men  talked. 
Their  conversation  was  technical,  a  new  extir 
pation  of  the  thyroid  gland,  a  recent  nephrec- 
tomy. 

In  her  curious  way  Marie  liked  Peter  and  re 
spected  him.  She  struggled  with  the  technical 
ities  of  their  talk  as  she  sewed,  finding  here  and 
there  a  comprehensive  bit.  At  those  times  she 

m 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

sat,  needle  poised,  intelligent  eyes  on  the  speakers, 
until  she  lost  herself  again  in  the  mazes  of  their 
English. 

At  ten  o'clock  she  rose  and  put  away  her 
sewing.  Peter  saw  her  get  the  stone  pitcher  and 
knew  she  was  on  her  way  for  the  evening  beer. 
He  took  advantage  of  her  absence  to  broach  the 
matter  of  Harmony. 

"She's  up  against  it,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  he 
finished.  "It  ought  to  be  easy  enough  for  her 
to  find  something,  but  it  is  n't." 

"I  hardly  saw  her  that  day  in  the  coffee-house; 
but  she's  rather  handsome,  is  n't  she?" 

"That's  one  of  the  difficulties.   Yes." 

Stewart  smoked  and  reflected.  "No  friends 
here  at  all?" 

"None.  There  were  three  girls  at  first.  Two 
have  gone  home." 

"Could  she  teach  violin?" 

"I  should  think  so." 

"Are  n't  there  any  kids  in  the  American  col 
ony  who  want  lessons?  There's  usually  some 
sort  of  infant  prodigy  ready  to  play  at  any  en 
tertainments  of  the  Doctors'  Club." 

"They  don't  want  an  American  teacher,  I 
fancy;  but  I  suppose  I  could  put  a  card  up  in 
the  club  rooms.  Damn  it  all!"  cried  Peter  with 
a  burst  of  honest  resentment,  "why  do  I  have  to 
be  poor?" 

83 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"If  you  were  rolling  in  gold  you  could  hardly 
offer  her  money,  could  you?" 

Peter  had  not  thought  of  that  before.  It 
was  the  only  comfort  he  found  in  his  poverty. 
Marie  had  brought  in  the  beer  and  was  carefully 
filling  the  mugs.  "Why  do  you  not  marry  her?" 
she  asked  unexpectedly.  "Then  you  could  take 
this  flat.  We  are  going  to  Semmering  for  the 
winter  sports.  I  would  show  her  about  the 
stove." 

"Marry  her,  of  course!"  said  Peter  gravely. 
"Just  pick  her  up  and  carry  her  to  church! 
The  trifling  fact  that  she  does  not  wish  to  marry 
me  need  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Ah,  but  does  she  not  wish  it?"  demanded 
Marie.  "Are  you  so  certain,  stupid  big  one? 
Do  not  women  always  love  you?" 

Ridiculous  as  the  thought  was,  Peter  pondered 
it  as  he  went  back  to  the  Pension  Schwarz. 
About  himself  he  was  absurdly  modest,  almost 
humble.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
women  might  care  for  him  for  himself.  In  his 
struggling  life  there  had  been  little  time  for 
women.  But  about  himself  as  the  solution  of  a 
problem  —  that  was  different. 

He  argued  the  thing  over.  In  the  unlikely 
contingency  of  the  girl's  being  willing,  was 
Stewart  right  —  could  two  people  live  as  cheaply 
as  one?  Marie  was  an  Austrian  and  knew  how 

84 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  manage  —  that  was  different.  And  another 
thing  troubled  him.  He  dreaded  to  disturb  the 
delicate  adjustment  of  their  relationship;  the 
terra  incognita  of  a  young  girl's  mind  daunted 
him.  There  was  another  consideration  which  he 
put  resolutely  in  the  back  of  his  mind  —  his 
career.  He  had  seen  many  a  promising  one 
killed  by  early  marriage,  men  driven  to  the 
hack  work  of  the  profession  by  the  scourge  of 
financial  necessity.  But  that  was  a  matter 
of  the  future;  the  necessity  was  immediate. 

The  night  was  very  cold.  Gusts  of  wind 
from  the  snow-covered  Schneeberg  drove  along 
the  streets,  making  each  corner  a  fortress  de 
fended  by  the  elements,  a  battlement  to  be 
seized,  lost,  seized  again.  Peter  Byrne  battled 
valiantly  but  mechanically.  And  as  he  fought 
he  made  his  decision. 

He  acted  with  characteristic  promptness. 
Possibly,  too,  he  was  afraid  of  the  strength  of 
his  own  resolution.  By  morning  sanity  might 
prevail,  and  in  cold  daylight  he  would  see  the 
absurdity  of  his  position.  He  almost  ran  up 
the  winding  staircase.  At  the  top  his  cold  fingers 
fumbled  the  key  and  he  swore  under  his  breath. 
He  slammed  the  door  behind  him.  Peter 
always  slammed  doors,  and  had  an  apologetic 
way  of  opening  the  door  again  and  closing  it 
gently,  as  if  to  show  that  he  could. 

85 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony's  room  was  dark,  but  he  had  sur 
prised  her  once  into  a  confession  that  when  she 
was  very  downhearted  she  liked  to  sit  in  the 
dark  and  be  very  blue  indeed.  So  he  stopped 
and  knocked.  There  was  no  reply,  but  from 
Dr.  Gates's  room  across  there  came  a  hum  of 
conversation.  He  knew  at  once  that  Harmony 
was  there. 

Peter  hardly  hesitated.  He  took  off  his  soft  hat 
and  ran  a  hand  over  his  hair,  and  he  straight 
ened  his  tie.  These  preliminaries  to  a  proposal 
of  marriage  being  disposed  of,  he  rapped  at  the 
door. 

Anna  Gates  opened  it.  She  wore  a  hideous 
red-flannel  wrapper,  and  in  deference  to  Har 
mony  a  thimble.  Her  flat  breast  was  stuck 
with  pins,  and  pinkish  threads  revealed  the 
fact  that  the  bathrobe  was  still  under  way. 

" Peter ! "  she  cried.  "  Come  in  and  get  warm." 

Harmony,  in  the  blue  kimono,  gave  a  little 
gasp,  and  flung  round  her  shoulders  the  mass 
of  pink  on  which  she  had  been  working. 

"Please  go  out!"  she  said.  "I  am  not  dressed." 

:'You  are  covered,"  returned  Anna  Gates. 
"That's  all  that  any  sort  of  clothing  can  do. 
Don't  mind  her,  Peter,  and  sit  on  the  bed. 
Look  out  for  pins!" 

Peter,  however,  did  not  sit  down.  He  stood 
just  inside  the  closed  door  and  stared  at  Har- 

86 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

mony  —  Harmony  in  the  red  light  from  the 
little  open  door  of  the  stove;  Harmony  in  blue 
and  pink  and  a  bit  of  white  petticoat;  Harmony 
with  her  hair  over  her  shoulders  and  tied  out 
of  her  eyes  with  an  encircling  band  of  rosy 
flannel. 

"Do  sit!"  cried  Anna  Gates.  "You  fill  the 
room  so.  Bless  you,  Peter,  what  a  collar!" 

No  man  likes  to  know  his  collar  is  soiled, 
especially  on  the  eve  of  proposing  marriage  to  a 
pink  and  blue  and  white  vision.  Peter,  seated 
now  on  the  bed,  writhed. 

"I  rapped  at  Miss  Wells's  door,"  he  said. 
"You  were  not  there." 

This  last,  of  course,  to  Harmony. 

Anna  Gates  sniffed. 

"Naturally!" 

"  I  had  something  to  say  to  you.  I  —  I 
dare  say  it  is  hardly  pension  etiquette  for  you 
to  go  over  to  your  room  and  let  me  say  it  there?" 

Harmony  smiled  above  the  flannel. 

"Could  you  call  it  through  the  door?" 

"Hardly." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  Dr.  Gates,  rising.  "I'll 
go  over,  of  course,  but  not  for  long.  There's  no 
fire." 

With  her  hand  on  the  knob,  however,  Har 
mony  interfered. 

"Please!"  she  implored.  "I  am  not  dressed, 
87 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  I'd  rather  not."  She  turned  to  Peter. 
"You  can  say  it  before  her,  can't  you?  She  —  I 
have  told  her  all  about  things." 

Peter  hesitated.  He  felt  ridiculous  for  the 
second  time  that  night.  Then :  — 

"It  was  merely  an  idea  I  had.  I  saw  a  little 
apartment  furnished  —  you  could  learn  to  use 
the  stove,  unless,  of  course,  you  don't  like  house 
keeping  —  and  food  is  really  awfully  cheap. 
Why,  at  these  delicatessen  places  and  bake- 
shops  —  " 

Here  he  paused  for  breath  and  found  Dr. 
Gates's  quizzical  glance  fixed  on  him,  and 
Harmony's  startled  eyes. 

"What  I  am  trying  to  say,"  he  exploded, 
"is  that  I  believe  if  you  would  marry  me  it 
would  solve  some  of  your  troubles  anyhow." 
He  was  talking  for  time  now,  against  Harmony's 
incredulous  face.  "You'd  be  taking  on  others, 
of  course.  I  'm  not  much  and  I  'm  as  poor  — 
well,  you  know.  It  —  it  was  the  apartment 
that  gave  me  the  idea — " 

"And  the  stove!"  said  Harmony;  and  sud 
denly  burst  into  joyous  laughter.  After  a  rather 
shocked  instant  Dr.  Gates  joined  her.  It  was 
real  mirth  with  Harmony,  the  first  laugh  of 
days,  that  curious  laughter  of  women  that  is 
not  far  from  tears. 

Peter  sat  on  the  bed  uncomfortably.  He 
88 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

grinned    sheepishly    and    made    a    last    feeble 
attempt  to  stick  to  his  guns. 

"I  mean  it.  You  know  I'm  not  in  love  with 
you  or  you  with  me,  of  course.  But  we  are  such 
a  pair  of  waifs,  and  I  thought  we  might  get 
along.  Lord  knows  I  need  some  one  to  look  after 
me!" 

"And  Emma?" 

"There  is  no  Emma.    I  made  her  up." 

Harmony  sobered  at  that. 

"It  is  only"  -  she  gasped  a  little  for  breath  - 
"it  is  only  your  —  your  transparency,  Peter." 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  called  him  Peter. 
"You  know  how  things  are  with  me  and  you 
want  to  help  me,  and  out  of  your  generosity 
you  are  willing  to  take  on  another  burden. 
Oh,  Peter!" 

And  here,  Harmony  being  an  emotional  young 
person,  the  tears  beat  the  laughter  to  the  sur 
face  and  had  to  be  wiped  away  under  the  cover 
of  mirth. 

Anna  Gates,  having  recovered  herself,  sat 
back  and  surveyed  them  both  sternly  through 
her  glasses. 

"Once  for  all,"  she  said  brusquely,  "let  such 
foolishness  end.  Peter,  I  am  ashamed  of  you. 
Marriage  is  not  for  you  —  not  yet,  not  for  a 
dozen  years.  Any  man  can  saddle  himself  with 
a  wife;  not  every  man  can  be  what  you  may  be  if 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

you  keep  your  senses  and  stay  single.  And  the 
same  is  true  for  you,  girl.  To  tide  over  a  bad 
six  months  you  would  sacrifice  the  very  thing 
you  are  both  struggling  for?" 

"I'm  sure  we  don't  intend  to  do  it,"  replied 
Harmony  meekly. 

"Not  now.  Some  day  you  may  be  tempted. 
When  that  time  comes,  remember  what  I  say. 
Matrimonially  speaking,  each  of  you  is  fatal 
to  the  other.  Now  go  away  and  let  me  alone. 
I'm  not  accustomed  to  proposals  of  marriage." 

It  was  in  some  confusion  of  mind  that 
.Peter  Byrne  took  himself  off  to  the  bed 
room  with  the  cold  tiled  stove  and  the  bed 
that  was  as  comfortable  as  a  washtub.  Un 
deniably  he  was  relieved.  Also  Harmony's 
problem  was  yet  unsolved.  Also  she  had 
called  him  Peter. 

Also  he  had  said  he  was  not  in  love  with  her. 
Was  he  so  sure  of  that? 

At  midnight,  just  as  Peter,  rolled  in  the  bed- 
clothing,  had  managed  to  warm  the  cold  con 
cavity  of  his  bed  and  had  dozed  off,  Anna 
Gates  knocked  at  his  door. 

"Yes?"  said  Peter,  still  comfortably  asleep. 

"It  is  Dr.  Gates." 

"Sorry,  Doctor  —  have  to  'xcuse  me,"  mum 
bled  Peter  from  the  blanket. 

"Peter!" 

90 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Peter  roused  to  a  chilled  and  indignant  con 
sciousness  and  sat  up  in  bed. 

"Well?" 

"Open  the  door  just  a  crack." 

Resignedly  Peter  crawled  out  of  bed,  carefully 
turning  the  coverings  up  to  retain  as  much  heat 
as  possible.  An  icy  blast  from  the  open  window 
blew  round  him,  setting  everything  movable  in 
the  little  room  to  quivering.  He  fumbled  in  the 
dark  for  his  slippers,  failed  to  find  them,  and 
yawning  noisily  went  to  the  door. 

Anna  Gates,  with  a  candle,  was  outside. 
Her  short,  graying  hair  was  out  of  its  hard 
knot,  and  hung  in  an  equally  uncompromising 
six-inch  plait  down  her  back.  She  had  no  glasses, 
and  over  the  candle-frame  she  peered  short 
sightedly  at  Peter. 

"It's  about  Jimmy,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
know  what's  got  into  me,  but  I've  forgotten 
for  three  days.  It's  a  good  bit  more  than  time 
for  a  letter." 

"Great  Scott!" 

"Both  yesterday  and  to-day  he  asked  for 
it  and  to-day  he  fretted  a  little.  The  nurse  found 
him  crying." 

"The  poor  little  devil!"  said  Peter  contritely. 
"Overdue,  is  it?  I'll  fix  it  to-night." 

"Leave  it  under  the  door  where  I  can  get 
it  in  the  morning.  I  'm  off  at  seven." 

91 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"The  envelope? " 

"Here  it  is.  And  take  my  candle.  I'm  going  to 
bed." 

That  was  at  midnight  or  shortly  after.  Half 
after  one  struck  from  the  twin  clocks  of  the 
Votivkirche  and  echoed  from  the  Stephans- 
platz  across  the  city.  It  found  Peter  with  the 
window  closed,  sitting  up  in  bed,  a  candle 
balanced  on  one  knee,  a  writing-tablet  on  the 
other. 

He  was  writing  a^spirited  narrative  of  a  cham 
ois  hunt  in  which  he  had  taken  part  that  day, 
including  a  detailed  description  of  the  quarry, 
which  weighed,  according  to  Peter,  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  Peter  being  strong  on  imagi 
nation  and  short  on  facts  as  regards  the  Alpine 
chamois.  Then,  trying  to  read  the  letter  from  a 
small  boy's  point  of  view  and  deciding  that  it 
lacked  snap,  he  added  by  way  of  postscript  a 
harrowing  incident  of  avalanche,  rope,  guide, 
and  ice  axe.  He  ended  in  a  sort  of  glow  of  author 
ship,  and  after  some  thought  took  fifty  pounds 
off  the  chamois. 

The  letter  finished,  he  put  it  in  a  much-used 
envelope  addressed  to  Jimmy  Conroy  —  an 
envelope  that  stamped  the  whole  episode  as 
authentic,  bearing  as  it  did  an  undecipherable 
date  and  the  postmark  of  a  tiny  village  in  the 
Austrian  Tyrol. 

92 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

It  was  almost  two  when  Peter  put  out  the 
candle  and  settled  himself  to  sleep. 

It  was  just  two  o'clock  when  the  night  nurse, 
making  rounds  in  her  ward  in  the  general 
hospital,  found  a  small  boy  very  much  awake 
on  his  pillow,  and  taking  off  her  felt  slipper  shook 
it  at  him  in  pretended  fury. 

"Now,  thou  bad  one!"  she  said.  "Awake, 
when  the  Herr  Doktor  orders  sleep!  Shall  I 
use  the  slipper?" 

The  boy  replied  in  German  with  a  strong 
„  English  accent. 

"I  cannot  sleep.  Yesterday  the  Fraulein 
Elisabet  said  that  in  the  mountains  there  are 
accidents,  and  that  sometimes  - 

"The  Fraulein  Elisabet  is  a  great  fool.  To 
morrow  comes  thy  letter  of  a  certainty.  The 
post  has  been  delayed  with  great  snows.  Thy 
father  has  perhaps  captured  a  great  boar,  or 
a  —  a  chamois,  and  he  writes  of  it." 

"Do  chamois  have  horns?" 

" Ja.    Great  horns  —  so." 

"He  will  send  them  to  me!  And  there  are  no 
accidents?" 

"None.   Now  sleep,  or  —  the  slipper." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SO  far  Harmony's  small  world  in  the  old 
city  had  consisted  of  Scatchy  and  the  Big 
Soprano,  Peter,  and  Anna  Gates,  with  far  off 
in  the  firmament  the  master.  Scatchy  and  the 
Big  Soprano  had  gone,  weeping  anxious  post 
cards  from  every  way  station  it  is  true,  but  never 
theless  gone.  Peter  and  Anna  Gates  remained, 
and  the  master  as  long  as  her  funds  held  out. 
To  them  now  she  was  about  to  add  Jimmy. 

The  bathrobe  was  finished.  Out  of  the  little 
doctor's  chaos  of  pink  flannel  Harmony  had 
brought  order.  The  result,  masculine  and  com 
plete  even  to  its  tassels  and  cord  of  pink  yarn, 
was  ready  to  be  presented.  It  was  with  mingled 
emotions  that  Anna  Gates  wrapped  it  up  and 
gave  it  to  Harmony  the  next  morning. 

"He  has  n't  been  so  well  the  last  day  or  two," 
she  said.  "He  doesn't  sleep  much  —  that's 
the  worst  of  those  heart  conditions.  Sometimes, 
while  I  Ve  been  working  on  this  thing,  I  've  won 
dered —  Well,  we're  making  a  fight  anyhow. 
And  better  take  the  letter,  too,  Harry.  I  might 
forget  and  make  lecture  notes  on  it,  and  if  I 
spoil  that  envelope  - 

94 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  had  arranged  to  carry  the  bathrobe 
to  the  hospital,  meeting  the  doctor  there  after 
her  early  clinic.  She  knew  Jimmy's  little  story 
quite  well.  Anna  Gates  had  told  it  to  her  in  detail. 

"Just  one  of  the  tragedies  of  the  world,  my 
dear,"  she  had  finished.  "You  think  you  have  a 
tragedy,  but  you  have  youth  and  hope;  I  think 
I  have  my  own  little  tragedy,  because  I  have  to 
go  through  the  rest  of  life  alone,  when  taken 
in  time  I'd  have  been  a  good  wife  and  mother. 
Still  I  have  my  work.  But  this  little  chap, 
brought  over  here  by  a  father  who  hoped  to  see 
him  cured,  and  spent  all  he  had  to  bring  him 
here,  and  then  —  died.  It  gets  me  by  the  throat." 

"And  the  boy  does  not  know?"  Harmony 
had  asked,  her  eyes  wide. 

"No,  thanks  to  Peter.  He  thinks  his  father  is 
still  in  the  mountains.  When  we  heard  about  it 
Peter  went  up  and  saw  that  he  was  buried.  It 
took  about  all  the  money  there  was.  He  wrote 
home  about  it,  too,  to  the  place  they  came  from. 
There  has  never  been  any  reply.  Then  ever  since 
Peter  has  written  these  letters.  Jimmy  lives 
for  them." 

Peter!  It  was  always  Peter.  Peter  did  this. 
Peter  said  that.  Peter  thought  thus.  A  very 
large  part  of  Harmony's  life  was  Peter  in  those 
days. 

She  was  thinking  of  him  as  she  waited  at  the 

95 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

gate  of  the  hospital  for  Anna  Gates,  thinking  of 
his  shabby  gray  suit  and  unkempt  hair,  of  his 
letter  that  she  carried  to  Jimmy  Conroy,  of  his 
quixotic  proposal  of  the  night  before.  Of  the 
proposal,  most  of  all  —  it  was  so  eminently 
characteristic  of  Peter,  from  the  conception 
of  the  plan  to  its  execution.  Harmony's  thought 
of  Peter  was  very  tender  that  morning  as  she 
stood  in  the  arched  gateway  out  of  reach  of  the 
wind  from  the  Schneeberg.  The  tenderness  and 
the  bright  color  brought  by  the  wind  made  her 
very  beautiful.  Little  Marie,  waiting  across  the 
Alserstrasse  for  a  bus,  and  stamping  from  one 
foot  to  the  other  to  keep  warm,  recognized  and 
admired  her.  After  all,  the  American  women 
were  chic,  she  decided,  although  some  of  the 
doctors  had  wives  of  a  dowdiness  — Himmel ! 
And  she  could  copy  the  Fraulein's  hat  for  two 
Kronen  and  a  bit  of  ribbon  she  possessed. 

The  presentation  of  the  bathrobe  was  a  suc 
cess.  Six  nurses  and  a  Dozent  with  a  red  beard 
stood  about  and  watched  Jimmy  put  into  it, 
and  the  Dozent,  who  had  been  engaged  for  five 
years  and  could  not  marry  because  the  hospital 
board  forbade  it,  made  a  speech  for  Jimmy 
in  awe-inspiring  German,  ending  up  with  a  poem 
that  was  intended  to  be  funny,  but  that  made 
the  nurses  cry.  From  which  it  will  be  seen  that 
Jimmy  was  a  great  favorite. 

96 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

During  the  ceremony,  for  such  it  was,  the 
Germans  loving  a  ceremony,  Jimmy  kept  his 
eyes  on  the  letter  in  Anna  Gates's  hand  and 
waited.  That  the  letter  had  come  was  enough. 
He  lay  back  in  anticipatory  joy,  and  let  him 
self  be  talked  over,  and  bathrobed,  and  his  hair 
parted  Austrian  fashion  and  turned  up  over  a 
finger,  which  is  very  Austrian  indeed.  He  liked 
Harmony.  The  girl  caught  his  eyes  on  her  more 
than  once.  He  interrupted  the  speech  once  to 
ask  her  just  what  part  of  the  robe  she  had  made, 
and  whether  she  had  made  the  tassel.  When 
she  admitted  the  tassel,  his  admiration  became 
mixed  with  respect. 

It  was  a  bright  day,  for  a  marvel.  Sunlight 
came  through  the  barred  window  behind 
Jimmy's  bed,  and  brought  into  dazzling  radi 
ance  the  pink  bathrobe,  and  Harmony's  eyes, 
and  fat  Nurse  Elisabet's  white  apron.  It  lay 
on  the  bedspread  in  great  squares,  outlined  by 
the  shadows  of  the  window  bars.  Now  and  then 
the  sentry,  pacing  outside,  would  advance  as 
far  as  Jimmy's  window,  and  a  warlike  silhou 
ette  of  military  cap  and  the  upper  end  of  a 
carbine  would  appear  on  the  coverlet.  These 
events,  however,  were  rare,  the  sentry  preferring 
the  shelter  of  the  gateway  and  the  odor  of 
boiling  onions  from  the  lodge  just  inside. 

The  Dozent  retired  to  his  room  for  the  second 

97 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

breakfast;  the  nurses  went  about  the  business  of 
the  ward;  Dr.  Anna  Gates  drew  a  hairpin  from 
her  hair  and  made  a  great  show  of  opening  the 
many  times  opened  envelope. 

"The  letter  at  last!"  she  said.  "Shall  I  read 
it  or  will  you?" 

:<  You  read  it.  It  takes  me  so  long.  I  '11  read 
it  all  day,  after  you  are  gone.  I  always  do." 

Anna  Gates  read  the  letter.  She  read  aloud 
poor  Peter's  first  halting  lines,  when  he  was 
struggling  against  sleep  and  cold.  They  were 
mainly  an  apology  for  the  delay.  Then  for 
getting  discomfort  in  the  joy  of  creation,  he 
became  more  comfortable.  The  account  of 
the  near-accident  w^as  wonderfully  graphic;  the 
description  of  the  chamois  was  fervid,  if  not 
accurate.  But  consternation  came  with  the  end. 

The  letter  apparently  finished,  there  was  yet 
another  sheet.  The  doctor  read  on. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  said  Peter's  frantic 
postscript,  "find  out  how  much  a  medium- 
sized  chamois — " 

Dr.  Gates  stopped  -ought  to  weigh," 
was  the  rest  of  it,  "and  fix  it  right  in  the  letter. 
The  kid's  too  smart  to  be  fooled  and  I  never 
saw  a  chamois  outside  of  a  drug  store.  They 
have  horns,  haven't  they?" 

"That's  funny!"  said  Jimmy  Conroy. 

"That  was  one  of  my  papers  slipped  in  by 

98 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

mistake,"  remarked  Dr.  Gates,  with  dignity, 
and  flashing  a  wild  appeal  for  help  to  Har 
mony. 

"How  did  one  of  your  papers  get  in  when  it 
was  sealed?" 

"I  think,"  observed  Harmony,  leaning  for 
ward,  "that  little  boys  must  not  ask  too  many 
questions,  especially  when  Christmas  is  only 
six  weeks  off." 

"I  know!  He  wants  to  send  me  the  horns  the 
way  he  sent  me  the  boar's  tusks." 

For  Peter,  having  in  one  letter  unwisely  re 
corded  the  slaughter  of  a  boar,  had  been  obliged 
to  ransack  Vienna  for  a  pair  of  tusks.  The  tusks 
had  not  been  so  difficult.  But  horns! 

Jimmy  was  contented  with  his  solution  and 
asked  no  more  questions.  The  morning's  ex 
citement  had  tired  him,  and  he  lay  back.  Dr. 
Gates  went  to  hold  a  whispered  consultation 
with  the  nurse,  and  came  back,  looking  grave. 

The  boy  was  asleep,  holding  the  letter  in  his 
thin  hands. 

The  visit  to  the  hospital  was  a  good  thing 
for  Harmony  —  to  find  some  one  worse  off 
than  she  was,  to  satisfy  that  eternal  desire 
of  women  to  do  something,  however  small,  for 
some  one  else.  Her  own  troubles  looked  very 
small  to  her  that  day  as  she  left  the  hospital 
and  stepped  out  into  the  bright  sunshine. 

99 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

She  passed  the  impassive  sentry,  then  turned 
and  went  back  to  him. 

"Do  you  wish  to  do  a  very  kind  thing?" 
she  asked  in  German. 

Now  the  conversation  of  an  Austrian  sentry 
consists  of  yea,  yea,  and  nay,  nay,  and  not  al 
ways  that.  But  Harmony  was  lovely  and  the 
sun  was  moderating  the  wind.  The  sentry 
looked  round;  no  one  was  near. 

"What  do  you  wish?" 

"Inside  that  third  window  is  a  small  boy  and 
he  is  very  ill.  I  do  not  think  —  perhaps  he 
will  never  be  well  again.  Could  you  not,  now 
and  then,  pass  the  window?  It  pleases  him." 

"Pass  the  window!    But  why?" 

"In  America  we  see  few  of  our  soldiers.  He 
likes  to  see  you  and  the  gun." 

"Ah,  the  gun!"  He  smiled  and  nodded  in 
comprehension,  then,  as  an  officer  appeared  in 
the  door  of  a  coffee-house  across  the  street,  he 
stiffened  into  immobility  and  stared  past  Har 
mony  into  space.  But  the  girl  knew  he  would 
do  as  she  had  desired. 

That  day  brought  good  luck  to  Harmony. 
The  wife  of  one  of  the  professors  at  the  hospital 
desired  English  conversation  at  two  Kronen 
an  hour. 

Peter  brought  the  news  home  at  noon,  and 
that  afternoon  Harmony  was  engaged.  It  was 

100 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

little  enough,  but  it  was  something.  It  did 
much  more  than  offer  her  two  Kronen  an  hour; 
it  gave  her  back  her  self-confidence,  although 
the  immediate  result  was  rather  tragic. 

The  Frau  Professor  Bergmeister,  infatuated 
with  English  and  with  Harmony,  engaged  her 
and  took  her  first  two  Kronen  worth  that 
afternoon.  It  was  the  day  for  a  music-lesson. 
Harmony  arrived  five  minutes  late,  panting, 
hat  awry,  and  so  full  of  the  Frau  Professor 
Bergmeister  that  she  could  think  of  nothing  else. 

Obedient  to  orders  she  had  placed  the  envelope 
containing  her  fifty  Kronen  before  the  secre 
tary  as  she  went  in.  The  master  was  out  of 
humor.  Should  he,  the  teacher  of  the  great 
Koert,  be  kept  waiting  for  a  chit  of  a  girl  —  only, 
of  course,  he  said  "das  Kindchen"  or  some  other 
German  equivalent  for  chit  —  and  then  have 
her  come  into  the  sacred  presence  breathless, 
and  salute  him  between  gasps  as  the  Frau 
Professor  Bergmeister? 

Being  excited  and  now  confused  by  her  error, 
and  being  also  rather  tremulous  with  three 
flights  of  stairs  at  top  speed,  Harmony  dropped 
her  bow.  In  point  of  heinousness  this  classes 
with  dropping  one's  infant  child  from  an  upper 
window,  or  sitting  on  the  wrong  side  of  a  carriage 
when  with  a  lady. 

The  master,  thus  thrice  outraged,  rose  slowly 
101 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  glared  at  Harmony.  Then  with  a  lordly 
gesture  to  her  to  follow  he  stalked  to  the  outer 
room,  and  picking  up  the  envelope  with  the  fifty 
Kronen  held  it  out  to  her  without  a  word. 

Harmony's  world  came  crashing  about  her 
ears.  She  stared  stupidly  at  the  envelope  in 
her  hand,  at  the  master's  retreating  back. 

Two  girl  students  waiting  their  turn,  en 
velopes  in  hand,  giggled  together.  Harmony 
saw  them  and  flushed  scarlet.  But  the  lady 
secretary  touched  her  arm. 

"It  does  not  matter,  Fraulein.  He  does  so 
sometimes.  Always  he  is  sorry.  You  will  come 
for  your  next  lesson,  not  so?  and  all  will  be  well. 
You  are  his  well-beloved  pupil.  To-night  he 
will  not  eat  for  grief  that  he  has  hurt  you." 

The  ring  of  sincerity  in  the  shabby  secre 
tary's  voice  was  unmistakable.  Her  tense  throat 
relaxed.  She  looked  across  at  the  two  students 
who  had  laughed.  They  were  not  laughing 
now.  Something  of  fellowship  and  understand 
ing  passed  between  them  in  the  glance.  After 
all,  it  was  in  the  day's  work  —  would  come  to 
one  of  them  next,  perhaps.  And  they  had  much 
in  common  —  the  struggle,  their  faith,  the 
everlasting  loneliness,  the  little  white  envelopes, 
each  with  its  fifty  Kronen. 

Vaguely  comforted,  but  with  the  light  gone 
out  of  her  day  of  days,  Harmony  went  down 

102 


,  The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  three  long  flights  and  out  into  the  brightness 
of  the  winter  day. 

On  the  Ring  she  almost  ran  into  Peter.  He 
was  striding  toward  her,  giving  a  definite  im 
pression  of  being  bound  for  some  particular  des 
tination  and  of  being  behind  time.  That  this 
was  not  the  case  was  shown  by  the  celerity 
with  which,  when  he  saw  Harmony,  he  turned 
about  and  walked  with  her. 

"I  had  an  hour  or  two,"  he  explained,  "and 
I  thought  I  'd  walk.  But  walking  is  a  social 
habit,  like  drinking.  I  hate  to  walk  alone. 
How  about  the  Frau  Professor?" 

"She  has  taken  me  on.  I 'm  very  happy.  But, 
Dr.  Byrne  - 

"You  called  me  Peter  last  night." 

"That  was  different.  You  had  just  proposed 
to  me." 

"Oh,  if  that's  all  that's  necessary-  He 
stopped  in  the  center  of  the  busy  Ring  with  every 
evident  intention  of  proposing  again. 

"Please,  Peter!" 

"Aha!  Victory!  Well,  what  about  the  Frau 
Professor  B  ergmeister  ? ' ' 

"  She  asks  so  many  questions  about  America; 
and  I  cannot  answer  them." 

"For  instance?" 

"  Well,  taxes  now.  She 's  very  much  interested 
in  taxes." 

103 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Never  owned  anything  taxable  except  a 
dog  —  and  that  wasn't  a  tax  anyhow;  it 
was  a  license.  Can't  you  switch  her  on  to 
medicine  or  surgery,  where  I'd  be  of  some 
use?" 

"She  says  to-morrow  we'll  talk  of  the  tariff 
and  customs  duties." 

"Well,  I've  got  something  to  say  on  that." 
He  pulled  from  his  overcoat  pocket  a  largish 
bundle  -  -  Peter  always  bulged  with  packages 
—  and  held  it  out  for  her  to  see.  "Tell  the  Frau 
Professor  Bergmeister  with  my  compliments," 
he  said,  "that  because  some  idiot  at  home  sent 
me  five  pounds  of  tobacco,  hearing  from  afar 
my  groans  over  the  tobacco  here,  I  have  passed 
from  mere  financial  stress  to  destitution.  The 
Austrian  customs  have  taken  from  me  to-day 
the  equivalent  of  ten  dollars  in  duty.  I  offered 
them  the  tobacco  on  bended  knee,  but  they 
scorned  it." 

"Really,  Peter?" 

"Really." 

Under  this  lightness  Harmony  sensed  the 
real  anxiety.  Ten  dollars  was  fifty  Kronen, 
and  fifty  Kronen  was  a  great  deal  of  money. 
She  reached  over  and  patted  his  arm. 

'You'll  make  it  up  in  some  way.  Can't 
you  cut  off  some  little  extravagance?." 

"I  might  cut  down  on  my  tailor  bills."  He 
104 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

looked  down  at  himself  whimsically.  "Or  on 
ties.  I'm  positively  reckless  about  ties!" 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  A  detachment 
of  soldiery,  busy  with  that  eternal  military  ac 
tivity  that  seems  to  get  nowhere,  passed  on  a 
dog-trot.  Peter  looked  at  them  critically. 

"Bosnians,"  he  observed.  "Raw,  half -fed 
troops  from  Bosnia,  nine  out  of  ten  of  them 
tubercular.  It's  a  rotten  game,  this  military 
play  of  Europe.  How's  Jimmy?" 

"We  left  him  very  happy  with  your  letter." 

Peter  flushed.  "I  expect  it  was  pretty  poor 
stuff,"  he  apologized.  "I've  never  seen  the  Alps 
except  from  a  train  window,  and  as  for  a 
chamois  - 

"He  says  his  father  will  surely  send  him  the 
horns." 

Peter  groaned. 

"Of  course!"  he  said.  "Why,  in  Heaven's 
name,  did  n't  I  make  it  an  eagle?  One  can 
always  buy  a  feather  or  two.  But  horns? 
He  really  liked  the  letter?" 

"He  adored  it.  He  went  to  sleep  almost 
at  once  with  it  in  his  hands." 

Peter  glowed.  The  small  irritation  of  the 
custom-house  forgotten,  he  talked  of  Jimmy; 
of  what  had  been  done  and  might  still  be 
done,  if  only  there  were  money;  and  from  Jimmy 
he  talked  boy.  He  had  had  a  boys'  club  at 

105 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

home  during  his   short  experience  in   general 
practice.   Boys  were  his  hobby. 

"Scum  of  the  earth,  most  of  them,"  he  said, 
his  plain  face  glowing.  "Dirty  little  beggars 
off  the  street.  At  first  they  stole  my  tobacco, 
and  one  of  them  pawned  a  medical  book  or 
two!  Then  they  got  to  playing  the  game  right. 
By  Jove,  Harmony,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
them !  Used  to  line  'em  up  and  make  'em  spell, 
and  the  two  best  spellers  were  allowed  to  fight 
it  out  with  gloves  —  my  own  method,  and  it 
worked.  Spell!  They'd  spell  their  heads  off 
to  get  a  chance  at  the  gloves.  Gee,  how  I 
hated  to  give  them  up!" 

This  was  a  new  Peter,  a  boyish  individual 
Harmony  had  never  met  before.  For  the  first 
time  it  struck  her  that  Peter  was  young.  He 
had  always  seemed  rather  old,  solid  and  depend 
able,  the  fault  of  his  elder  brother  attitude  to 
her,  no  doubt.  She  was  suddenly  rather  shy,  a 
bit  aloof.  Peter  felt  the  change  and  thought 
she  was  bored.  He  talked  of  other  things. 

A  surprise  was  waiting  for  them  in  the  cold 
lower  hallway  of  the  Pension  Schwarz.  A  trunk 
was  there,  locked  and  roped,  and  on  the  trunk, 
in  ulster  and  hat,  sat  Dr.  Gates.  Olga,  looking 
rather  frightened,  was  coming  down  with  a 
traveling-bag.  She  put  down  the  bag  and  scut 
tled  up  the  staircase  like  a  scared  rabbit. 

106 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  little  doctor  was  grim.  She  eyed  Peter 
and  Harmony  with  an  impersonal  hostility,  refer 
able  to  her  humor. 

"  I  've  been  waiting  for  you  two,"  she  flung 
at  them.  "I  Ve  had  a  terrific  row  upstairs  and 
I'm  going.  That  woman's  a  devil!" 

It  had  been  a  bad  day  for  Harmony,  and  this 
new  development,  after  everything  else,  assumed 
the  proportions  of  a  crisis.  She  had  clung,  at 
first  out  of  sheer  loneliness  and  recently  out  of 
affection,  to  the  sharp  little  doctor  with  her 
mannish  affectations,  her  soft  and  womanly 
heart. 

"Sit  down,  child."  Anna  Gates  moved  over 
on  the  trunk.  "You  are  fagged  out.  Peter, 
will  you  stop  looking  murderous  and  listen  to 
me?  How  much  did  it  cost  the  three  of  us  to 
live  in  this  abode  of  virtue?" 

It  was  simple  addition.  The  total  was  rather 
appalling. 

"I  thought  so.  Now  this  is  my  plan.  It 
may  not  be  conventional,  but  it  will  be  respec 
table  enough  to  satisfy  anybody.  And  it  will 
be  cheaper,  I'm  sure  of  that:  We  are  all  going 
out  to  the  hunting-lodge  of  Maria  Theresa,  and 
Harmony  shall  keep  house  for  us!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  was  the  middle  of  November  when  Anna 
Gates,  sitting  on  her  trunk  in  the  cold  en 
trance  hall  on  the  Hirschengasse,  flung  the 
conversational  bomb  that  left  empty  three 
rooms  in  the  Pension  Schwarz. 

Mid-December  found  Harmony  back  and 
fully  established  in  the  lodge  of  Maria  Theresa 
on  the  Street  of  Seven  Stars  —  back,  but  with 
a  difference.  True,  the  gate  still  swung  back 
and  forward  on  rusty  hinges,  obedient  to  every 
whim  of  the  December  gales;  but  the  casement 
windows  in  the  salon  no  longer  creaked  or  ad 
mitted  drafts,  thanks  to  Peter  and  a  roll  of 
rubber  weather-casing.  The  grand  piano,  which 
had  been  Scatchy's  rented  extravagance,  had 
gone  never  to  return,  and  in  its  corner  stood  a 
battered  but  still  usable  upright.  Under  the 
great  chandelier  sat  a  table  with  an  oil  lamp, 
and  evening  and  morning  the  white-tiled  stove 
gleamed  warm  with  fire.  On  the  table  by  the 
lamp  were  the  combined  medical  books  of 
Peter  and  Anna  Gates,  and  an  ash-tray  which 
also  they  used  in  common. 

Shabby  still,  of  course,  bare,  almost  denuded, 
108 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa.  But  at  night,  with 
the  lamp  lighted  and  the  little  door  of  the 
stove  open,  and  perhaps,  when  the  dishes  from 
supper  had  been  washed,  with  Harmony  play 
ing  softly,  it  took  resolution  on  Peter's  part 
to  put  on  his  overcoat  and  face  a  lecture  on  the 
resection  of  a  rib  or  a  discussion  of  the  function 
of  the  pituitary  body. 

The  new  arrangement  had  proved  itself  in 
more  ways  than  one  not  only  greater  in  comfort 
but  in  economy.  Food  was  amazingly  cheap. 
Coal,  which  had  cost  ninety  Hellers  a  bucket  at 
the  Pension  Schwarz,  they  bought  in  quantity 
and  could  afford  to  use  lavishly.  Oil  for  the 
lamp  was  a  trifle.  They  dined  on  venison  now 
and  then,  when  the  shop  across  boasted  a  deer 
from  the  mountains.  They  had  other  game 
occasionally,  when  Peter,  carrying  home  a 
mysterious  package,  would  make  them  guess 
what  it  might  contain.  Always  on  such  occa 
sions  Harmony  guessed  rabbits.  She  knew  how 
to  cook  rabbits,  and  some  of  the  other  game 
worried  her. 

For  Harmony  was  the  cook.  It  had  taken 
many  arguments  and  much  coaxing  to  make 
Peter  see  it  that  way.  In  vain  Harmony  argued 
the  extravagance  of  Rosa,  now  married  to  the 
soldier  from  Salzburg  with  one  lung,  or  the 
tendency  of  the  delicatessen  seller  to  weigh 

109 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

short  if  one  did  not  watch  him.  Peter  was 
firm. 

It  was  Dr.  Gates,  after  all,  who  found  the 
solution. 

"Don't  be  too  obstinate,  Peter,"  she  admon 
ished  him.  "The  child  needs  occupation;  she 
can't  practice  all  day.  You  and  I  can  keep  up 
the  financial  end  well  enough,  reduced  as  it  is. 
Let  her  keep  house  to  her  heart's  content. 
That  can  be  her  contribution  to  the  general 
fund." 

And  that  eventually  was  the  way  it  settled 
itself,  not  without  demur  from  Harmony,  who 
feared  her  part  was  too  small,  and  who  irri 
tated  Anna  almost  to  a  frenzy  by  cleaning  the 
apartment  from  end  to  end  to  make  certain  of 
her  usefulness. 

A  curious  little  household  surely,  one  that 
made  the  wife  of  the  Portier  shake  her  head, 
and  speak  much  beneath  her  breath  with  the 
wife  of  the  brushmaker  about  the  Americans 
having  queer  ways  and  not  as  the  Austrians. 

The  short  month  had  seen  a  change  in  all 
of  them.  Peter  showed  it  least  of  all,  perhaps. 
Men  feel  physical  discomfort  less  keenly  than 
women,  and  Peter  had  been  only  subconsciously 
wretched.  He  had  gained  a  pound  or  two  in 
flesh,  perhaps,  and  he  was  unmistakably  tidier. 
Anna  Gates  was  growing  round  and  rosy,  and 

110 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  had  trimmed  her  a  hat.    But  the  real 
change  was  in  Harmony  herself. 

The  girl  had  become  a  woman.  Who  knows 
the  curious  psychology  by  which  such  changes 
come  —  not  in  a  month  or  a  year;  but  in  an 
hour,  a  breath.  One  moment  Harmony  was  a 
shy,  tender  young  creature,  all  emotion,  quiv 
ering  at  a  word,  aloof  at  a  glance,  prone  to 
occasional  introspection  and  mysterious  day 
dreams;  the  next  she  was  a  young  woman, 
tender  but  not  shyly  so,  incredibly  poised,  al 
most  formidably  dignified  on  occasion,  but  with 
little  girlish  lapses  into  frolic  and  high  spirits. 

The  transition  moment  with  Harmony  came 
about  in  this  wise:  They  had  been  settled  for 
three  weeks.  The  odor  of  stewing  cabbages 
at  the  Pension  Schwarz  had  retired  into  the 
oblivion  of  lost  scents,  to  be  recalled,  along 
with  its  accompanying  memory  of  discomfort, 
with  every  odor  of  stewing  cabbages  for  years 
to  come.  At  the  hospital  Jimmy  had  had  a 
bad  week  again.  It  had  been  an  anxious  time 
for  all  of  them.  In  vain  the  sentry  had  stopped 
outside  the  third  window  and  smiled  and 
nodded  through  it;  in  vain  —  when  the  street 
was  deserted  and  there  was  none  to  notice  - 
he  went  through  a  bit  of  the  manual  of  arms  on 
the  pavement  outside,  ending  by  setting  his 
gun  down  with  a  martial  and  ringing  clang. 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Elisabet  would  tie  them  there  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.    And  I  could  pretend  I  was  hunting." 

Harmony  had  a  great  piece  of  luck  that  day. 
As  she  went  home  she  saw  hanging  in  front  of 
the  wild-game  shop  next  to  the  delicatessen 
store  a  fresh  deer,  and  this  time  it  was  a  stag. 
Like  the  others  it  hung  head  down,  and  as  it 
swayed  on  its  hook  its  great  antlers  tapped 
against  the  shop  door  as  if  mutely  begging  ad 
mission. 

She  could  not  buy  the  antlers.  In  vain  she 
pleaded,  explained,  implored.  Harmony  enlisted 
the  Portier,  and  took  him  across  with  her.  The 
wild-game  seller  was  obdurate.  He  would  sell 
the  deer  entire,  or  he  would  mount  head  and 
antlers  for  his  wife's  cousin  in  Galicia  as  a 
Christmas  gift. 

Harmony  went  back  to  the  lodge  and  climbed 
the  stairs.  She  was  profoundly  depressed. 
Even  the  discovery  that  Peter  had  come  home 
early  and  was  building  a  fire  in  the  kitchen 
brought  only  a  fleeting  smile.  Anna  was  not 
yet  home. 

Peter  built  the  fire.  The  winter  dusk  was 
falling  and  Harmony  made  a  movement  to 
light  the  candles.  Peter  stopped  her. 

"Can't  we  have  the  firelight  for  a  little  while? 
You  are  always  beautiful,  but  —  you  are  lovely 
in  the  firelight.  Harmony." 

113 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

:<That  is  because  you  like  me.  We  always 
think  our  friends  are  beautiful." 

"I  am  fond  of  Anna,  but  I  have  never  thought 
her  beautiful." 

The  kitchen  was  small.  Harmony,  rolling 
up  her  sleeves  by  the  table,  and  Peter  before 
the  stove  were  very  close  together.  The  dusk 
was  fast  fading  into  darkness;  to  this  tiny  room 
at  the  back  of  the  old  house  few  street  sounds 
penetrated.  Round  them,  shutting  them  off 
together  from  the  world  of  shops  with  lighted 
windows,  rumbling  busses  and  hurrying  hu 
manity,  lay  the  old  lodge  with  its  dingy 
gardens,  its  whitewashed  halls,  its  dark  and 
twisting  staircases. 

Peter  had  been  very  careful.  He  had  cul 
tivated  a  comradely  manner  with  the  girl 
that  had  kept  her  entirely  at  her  ease  with 
him.  But  it  had  been  growing  increas 
ingly  hard.  He  was  only  human  after  all. 
And  he  was  very  comfortable.  Love,  healthy 
human  love,  thrives  on  physical  ease.  Indi 
gestion  is  a  greater  foe  to  it  than  poverty. 
Great  love  songs  are  written,  not  by  poets 
starving  in  hall  bedrooms,  with  insistent  hun 
ger  gnawing  and  undermining  all  that  is  of 
the  spirit,  but  by  full-fed  gentlemen  who  sing 
out  of  an  overflowing  of  content  and  wide  fel 
lowship,  and  who  write,  no  doubt,  just  after 

114 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

dinner.    Love,  being  a  hunger,  does  not  thrive 
on  hunger. 

Thus  Peter.  He  had  never  found  women 
essential,  being  occupied  in  the  struggle  for 
other  essentials.  Women  had  had  little  part  in 
his  busy  life.  Once  or  twice  he  had  seen  visions, 
dreamed  dreams,  to  waken  himself  savagely  to 
the  fact  that  not  for  many  years  could  he  afford 
the  luxury  of  tender  eyes  looking  up  into  his,  ' 
of  soft  arms  about  his  neck.  So  he  had  kept 
away  from  women  with  almost  ferocious  de 
termination.  And  now! 

He  drew  a  chair  before  the  stove  and  sat  down. 
Standing  or  sitting,  he  was  much  too  large  for 
the  kitchen.  He  sat  in  the  chair,  with  his  hands 
hanging,  fingers  interlaced  between  his  knees. 

The  firelight  glowed  over  his  strong,  rather 
irregular  features.  Harmony,  knife  poised  over 
the  evening's  potatoes,  looked  at  him. 

"I  think  you  are  sad  to-night,  Peter." 

"Depressed  a  bit.   That's  all." 

"It  is  n't  money  again?" 

It  was  generally  money  with  any  of  the  three, 
and  only  the  week  before  Peter  had  found  an 
error  in  his  bank  balance  which  meant  that  he 
was  a  hundred  Kronen  or  so  poorer  than  he 
had  thought.  This  discovery  had  been  very 
upsetting. 

"Not   more   than   usual.     Don't   mind   me. 
115 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

I'll  probably  end  in  a  roaring  bad  temper  and 
smash  something.  My  moody  spells  often  break 
up  that  way!" 

Harmony  put  down  the  paring-knife,  and 
going  over  to  where  he  sat  rested  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  Peter  drew  away  from  it. 

"I  have  hurt  you  in  some  way?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"  Could  —  could  you  talk  about  whatever  it 
is?  That  helps  sometimes." 

"You  would  n't  understand." 

"You  haven't  quarreled  with  Anna?"  Har 
mony  asked,  real  concern  in  her  voice. 

"No.  Good  Lord,  Harmony,  don't  ask  me 
what 's  wrong!  I  don't  know  myself." 

He  got  up  almost  violently  and  set  the 
little  chair  back  against  the  wall.  Hurt  and 
astonished,  Harmony  went  back  to  the  table. 
The  kitchen  was  entirely  dark,  save  for  the 
firelight,  which  gleamed  on  the  bare  floor 
and  the  red  legs  of  the  table.  She  was  fum 
bling  with  a  match  'and  the  candle  when 
she  realized  that  Peter  was  just  behind  her, 
very  close. 

,  "Dearest,"  he  said  huskily.  The  next  mo 
ment  he  had  caught  her  to  him,  was  kissing  her 
lips,  her  hair. 

Harmony's  heart  beat  wildly.  There  was  no 
use  struggling  against  him.  The  gates  of  his 

116 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

self-control  were  down:  all  his  loneliness,  his 
starved  senses  rushed  forth  in  tardy  assertion. 

After  a  moment  Peter  kissed  her  eyelids  very 
gently  and  let  her  go.  Harmony  was  trembling, 
but  with  shock  and  alarm  only.  The  storm  that 
had  torn  him  root  and  branch  from  his  firm 
ground  of  self-restraint  left  her  only  shaken. 
He  was  still  very  close  to  her;  she  could  hear  him 
breathing.  He  did  not  attempt  to  speak. 
With  every  atom  of  strength  that  was  left  in 
him  he  was  fighting  a  mad  desire  to  take  her  in 
his  arms  again  and  keep  her  there. 

That  was  the  moment  when  Harmony  became 
a  woman. 

She  lighted  the  candle  with  the  match  she 
still  held.  Then  she  turned  and  faced  him. 

"That  sort  of  thing  is  not  for  you  and  me, 
Peter,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Why  not?" 

"There  is  n't  any  question  about  it." 

He  was  still  reckless,  even  argumentative; 
the  crying  need  of  her  still  obsessed  him. 

"Why  not?  Why  should  I  not  take  you  in 
my  arms?  If  there  is  a  moment  of  happiness 
to  be  had  in  this  grind  of  work  and  loneliness  - 

"It  has  not  made  me  happy." 

Perhaps  nothing  else  she  could  have  said 
would  have  been  so  effectual.  Love  demands 
reciprocation;  he  could  read  no  passion  in  her 

117 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

voice.    He  knew  then  that  he  had  left  her  un 
stirred.   He  dropped  his  outstretched  arms. 
"I'm  sorry.   I  did  n't  mean  to  do  it." 
"I  would  rather  not  talk  about  it,  please." 
The  banging  of  a  door  far  off  told  them  that 
Anna  Gates  had  arrived  and  was  taking  off  her 
goloshes  in  the  entry.  Peter  drew  a  long  breath, 
and,  after  his  habit,  shook  himself. 

"Very  well,  we'll  not  talk  of  it.  But,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  Harmony,  don't  avoid  me.  I'm 
not  a  cad.  I'll  let  you  alone." 

There  was  only  time  for  a  glance  of  under 
standing  between  them,  of  promise  from  Peter, 
of  acceptance  from  the  girl.  When  Anna  Gates 
entered  the  kitchen  she  found  Harmony  peeling 
potatoes  and  Peter  filling  up  an  already  over 
fed  stove. 

That  night,  during  that  darkest  hour  before 
the  dawn  when  the  thrifty  city  fathers  of  the 
old  town  had  shut  off  the  street  lights  because 
two  hours  later  the  sun  would  rise  and  furnish 
light  that  cost  the  taxpayers  nothing,  the 
Portier's  wife  awakened. 

The  room  was  very  silent,  too  silent.  On 
those  rare  occasions  when  the  Portier's  wife 
awakened  in  the  night  and  heard  the  twin 
clocks  of  the  Votivkirche  strike  three,  and  list 
ened,  perhaps,  while  the  delicatessen  seller 

118 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

ambled  home  from  the  Schubert  Society,  sing 
ing  beerily  as  he  ambled,  she  was  wont  to  hear 
from  the  bed  beside  hers  the  rhythmic  respira 
tion  that  told  her  how  safe  from  Schubert 
Societies  and  such  like  evils  was  her  lord. 
There  was  no  sound  at  all. 

The  Portier's  wife  raised  herself  on  her  elbow 
and  reached  over.  Owing  to  the  width  of  the 
table  that  stood  between  the  beds  and  to  a 
sweeping  that  day  which  had  left  the  beds  far 
apart  she  met  nothing  but  empty  air.  Words 
had  small  effect  on  the  Portier,  who  slept 
fathoms  deep  in  unconsciousness.  Also  she  did 
not  wish  to  get  up  —  the  floor  was  cold  and  a 
wind  blowing.  Could  she  not  hear  it  and  the 
creaking  of  the  deer  across  the  street,  as  it 
swung  on  its  hook? 

The  wife  of  the  Portier  was  a  person  of  re 
source.  She  took  the  iron  candlestick  from  the 
table  and  flung  it  into  the  darkness  at  the  Por 
tier's  pillow.  No  startled  yell  followed. 

Suspicion  thus  confirmed,  the  Portier's  wife 
forgot  the  cold  floor  and  the  wind,  and  barefoot 
felt  her  way  into  the  hall. 

Suspicion  was  doubly  confirmed.  The  chain 
was  off  the  door;  it  even  stood  open  an  inch  or 
two. 

Armed  with  a  second  candlestick  she  sta 
tioned  herself  inside  the  door  and  waited. 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  stone  floor  was  icy,  but  the  fury  of  a  woman 
scorned  kept  her  warm.  The  Votivkirche  struck 
one,  two,  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  The  can 
dlestick  in  her  hand  changed  from  iron  to  ice, 
from  ice  to  red-hot  fire.  Still  the  Portier  had 
not  come  back  and  the  door  chain  swung  in  the 
wind. 

At  four  o'clock  she  retired  to  the  bedroom 
again.  Indignation  had  changed  to  fear,  cou 
pled  with  sneezing.  Surely  even  the  Schubert 
Society  —  What  was  that? 

From  the  Portier's  bed  was  coming  a  rhyth 
mic  respiration! 

She  roused  him,  standing  over  him  with  the 
iron  candlestick,  now  lighted,  and  gazing  at 
him  with  eyes  in  which  alarm  struggled  with 
suspicion. 

"Thou  hast  been  out  of  thy  bed!" 

"But  no!" 

"An  hour  since  the  bed  was  empty." 

"Thou  dreamest." 

;'The  chain  is  off  the  door." 

"Let  it  remain  so  and  sleep.  What  have  we 
to  steal  or  the  Americans  above?  Sleep  and  keep 
peace." 

He  yawned  and  was  instantly  asleep  again. 
The  Portier's  wife  crawled  into  her  bed  and 
warmed  her  aching  feet  under  the  crimson 
feather  comfort.  But  her  soul  was  shaken. 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  Devil  had  been  known  to  come  at  night 
and  take  innocent  ones  out  to  do  his  evil.  The 
innocent  ones  knew  it  not,  but  it  might  be  told 
by  the  soles  of  the  feet,  which  were  always 
soiled. 

* 

At  dawn  the  Portier's  wife  cautiously  un 
covered  the  soles  of  her  sleeping  lord's  feet, 
and  fell  back  gasping.  They  were  quite  black, 
as  of  one  who  had  tramped  in  garden  mould. 

Early  the  next  morning  Harmony,  after  a 
restless  night,  opened  the  door  from  the  salon 
of  Maria  Theresa  into  the  hall  and  set  out  a 
pitcher  for  the  milk. 

On  the  floor,  just  outside,  lay  the  antlers  from 
the  deer  across  the  street.  Tied  to  them  was  a 
bit  of  paper,  and  on  it  was  written  the  one 
word,  "Still!" 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  looking  back  after  a  catastrophe  it  is  easy 
to  trace  the  steps  by  which  the  inevitable 
advanced.  Destiny  marches,  not  by  great 
leaps  but  with  a  thousand  small  and  painful 
steps,  and  here  and  there  it  leaves  its  mark,  a 
footprint  on  a  naked  soul.  We  trace  a  life  by 
its  scars,  as  a  tree  by  its  rings. 

Anna  Gates  was  not  the  best  possible  com 
panion  for  Harmony,  and  this  with  every  al 
lowance  for  her  real  kindliness,  her  genuine 
affection  for  the  girl.  Life  had  destroyed  her 
illusions,  and  it  was  of  illusions  that  Harmony's 
veil  had  been  woven.  To  Anna  Gates,  worn 
with  a  thousand  sleepless  nights,  a  thousand 
thankless  days,  withered  before  her  time  with 
the  struggling  routine  of  medical  practice, 
sapped  with  endless  calls  for  sympathy  and  aid, 
existence  ceased  to  be  spiritual  and  became 
physiological. 

Life  and  birth  and  death  had  lost  their 
mysteries.  The  veil  was  rent. 

To  fit  this  existence  of  hers  she  had  built 
herself  a  curious  creed,  a  philosophy  of  in 
dividualism,  from  behind  which  she  flung 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

strange  bombshells  of  theories,  shafts  of  dis 
torted  moralities,  personal  liberties,  irresponsi 
bilities,  a  supreme  scorn  for  modern  law  and 
the  prophets.  Nature,  she  claimed,  was  her 
law  and  her  prophet. 

In  her  hard-working,  virginal  life  her  theories  ' 
had  wrought  no  mischief.  Temptation  had  been 
lacking  to  exploit  them,  and  even  in  the  event 
rof  the  opportunity  it  was"  doubtful  whether 
she  would  have  had  the  strength  of  her  con 
victions.  Men  love  theories,  but  seldom  have 
the  courage  of  them,  and  Anna  Gates  was 
largely  masculine.  Women,  being  literal,  are 
apt  to  absorb  dangerous  doctrine  and  put  it  to 
the  test.  When  it  is  false  doctrine  they  dis 
cover  it  too  late. 

Harmony  was  now  a  woman. 

Anna  would  have  cut  off  her  hand  sooner 
than  have  brought  the  girl  to  harm;  but  she 
loved  to  generalize.  It  amused  her  to  see  Har 
mony's  eyes  widen  with  horror  at  one  of  her 
radical  beliefs.  Nothing  pleased  her  more  than 
to  pit  her  individualism  against  the  girl's  rigid 
and  conventional  morality,  and  down  her  by 
some  apparently  unanswerable  argument. 

On  the  day  after  the  incident  in  the  kitchen 
such  an  argument  took  place  —  hardly  an  argu 
ment,  for  Harmony  knew  nothing  of  mental 
fencing.  Anna  had  taken  a  heavy  cold,  and 

123 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

remained  at  home.  Harmony  had  been  prac 
ticing,  and  at  the  end  she  played  a  little  winter 
song  by  some  modern  composer.  It  breathed 
all  the  purity  of  a  white  winter's  day;  it  was  as 
chaste  as  ice  and  as  cold;  and  yet  throughout 
was  the  thought  of  green  things  hiding  beneath 
the  snow  and  the  hope  of  spring. 

Harmony,  having  finished,  voiced  some  such 
feeling.  She  was  rather  ashamed  of  her  thought. 

"It  seems  that  way  to  me,"  she  finished 
apologetically.  "It  sounds  rather  silly.  I  always 
think  I  can  tell  the  sort  of  person  who  composes 
certain  things." 

"And  this  gentleman  who  writes  of  winter?" 

"I  think  he  is  very  reserved.  And  that  he 
has  never  loved  any  one." 

"Indeed!" 

"When  there  is  any  love  in  music,  any  heart, 
one  always  feels  it,  exactly  as  in  books  —  the 
difference  between  a  love  story  and  —  and  — " 
-a  dictionary!" 

"You  always  laugh,"  Harmony  complained. 

"That 's  better  than  weeping.  When  I  think 
of  the  rotten  way  things  go  in  this  world  I 
want  to  weep  always." 

"I  don't  find  it  a  bad  world.  Of  course  there 
are  bad  people,  but  there  are  good  ones." 

"Where?   Peter  and  you  and  I,  I  suppose." 

" There  are  plenty  of  good  men." 
124 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"What  do  you  call  a  good  man?" 

Harmony  hesitated,  then  went  on  bravely:  — 

"Honorable  men." 

Anna  smiled.  "My  dear  child,"  she  said, 
"you  substitute  the  code  of  a  gentleman  for 
the  Mosaic  Law.  Of  course  your  good  man  is 
a  monogamist?" 

Harmony  nodded,  puzzled  eyes  on  Anna. 

"Then  there  are  no  'good'  people  in  the 
polygamous  countries,  I  suppose!  When  there 
were  twelve  women  to  every  man,  a  man  took 
a  dozen  wives.  To-day  in  our  part  of  the  globe 
there  is  one  woman  —  and  a  fifth  over  —  for 
every  man.  Each  man  gets  one  woman,  and  for 
every  five  couples  there  is  a  derelict  like  myself, 
mateless." 

Anna's  amazing  frankness  about  herself  often 
confused  Harmony.  Her  resentment  at  her 
single  condition,  because  it  left  her  childless, 
brought  forth  theories  that  shocked  and  alarmed 
the  girl.  In  the  atmosphere  in  which  Harmony 
had  been  reared  single  women  were  always  pre 
sumed  to  be  thus  by  choice  and  to  regard  with 
a  certain  tolerance  those  weaker  sisters  who  had 
married.  Anna,  on  the  contrary,  was  frankly  a 
derelict,  frankly  regretted  her  maiden  condition 
and  railed  with  bitterness  against  her  enforced 
childlessness.  The  near  approach  of  Christinas 
had  for  years  found  her  morose  and  resentful. 

125 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

There  are,  here  and  there,  such  women,  essen 
tially  mothers  but  not  necessarily  wives,  their 
sole  passion  that  of  maternity. 

Anna,  argumentative  and  reckless,  talked  on. 
She  tore  away,  in  her  resentment,  every  theory 
of  existence  the  girl  had  ever  known,  and  offered 
her  instead  an  incredible  liberty  in  the  name 
of  the  freedom  of  the  individual.  Harmony 
found  all  her  foundations  of  living  shaken, 
and  though  refusing  to  accept  Anna's  theories, 
found  her  faith  in  her  own  weakened.  She  sat 
back,  pale  and  silent,  listening,  while  Anna  built 
up  out  ]  of  her  discontent  a  new  heaven  and 
a  new  earth,  with  liberty  written  high  in  its 
firmament. 

When  her  reckless  mood  had  passed  Anna  was 
regretful  enough  at  the  girl's  stricken  face. 

"I  'm  a  fool!"  she  said  contritely.  "If  Peter 
had  been  here  he  'd  have  throttled  me.  I  deserve 
it.  I  'm  a  theorist,  pure  and  simple,  and  theorists 
are  the  anarchists  of  society.  There  's  only  one 
comfort  about  us  —  we  never  live  up  to  our 
convictions.  Now  forget  all  this  rot  I  've  been 
talking." 

Peter  brought  up  the  mail  that  afternoon, 
a  Christmas  card  or  two  for  Anna,  depressingly 
early,  and  a  letter  from  the  Big  Soprano  for 
Harmony  from  New  York.  The  Big  Soprano 

126 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

was  very  glad  to  be  back  and  spent  two  pages 
over  her  chances  for  concert  work. 

"...  I  could  have  done  as  well  had  I  stayed 
at  home.  If  I  had  had  the  money  they 
wanted,  to  go  to  Geneva  and  sing  'Brunn- 
hilde,'  it  would  have  helped  a  lot.  I  could 
have  said  I'd  sung  in  opera  in  Europe  and 
at  least  have  had  a  hearing  at  the  Met.  But 
I  did  n't,  and  I  'm  back  at  the  church  again 
and  glad  to  get  my  old  salary.  If  it's  at  all 
possible,  stay  until  the  master  has  presented 
you  in  a  concert.  He 's  quite  right,  you  have  n't 
a  chance  unless  he  does.  And  now  I'll  quit 
grumbling. 

"Scatchy  met  her  Henry  at  the  dock  and 
looked  quite  lovely,  flushed  with  excitement 
and  having  been  up  since  dawn  curling  her  hair. 
He  was  rather  a  disappointment  —  small  and 
blond,  with  light  blue  eyes,  and  almost  dapper. 
But  oh,  my  dear,  I  would  n't  care  how  pale  a 
man's  eyes  were  if  he  looked  at  me  the  way 
Henry  looked  at  her. 

"They  asked  me  to  luncheon  with  them,  but 
I  knew  they  wanted  to  be  alone  together,  and 
so  I  ate  a  bite  or  two,  all  I  could  swallow  for  the 
lump  in  my  throat,  by  myself.  I  was  homesick 
enough  in  old  Wien,  but  I  am  just  as  home 
sick  now  that  I  am  here,  for  we  are  really 

127 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

homesick  only  for  people,  not  places.    And  no 
one  really  cared  whether  I  came  back  or  not." 

Peter  had  been  miserable  all  day,  not  with 
regret  for  the  day  before,  but  with  fear.  What 
if  Harmony  should  decide  that  the  situation 
was  unpleasant  and  decide  to  leave?  What  if 
a  reckless  impulse,  recklessly  carried  out,  were 
to  break  up  an  arrangement  that  had  made 
a  green  oasis  of  happiness  and  content  for  all 
of  them  in  the  desert  of  their  common  despair? 

If  he  had  only  let  her  go  and  apologized! 
But  no,  he  had  had  to  argue,  to  justify  himself, 
to  make  an  idiot  of  himself  generally.  He  almost 
groaned  aloud  as  he  opened  the  gate  and  crossed 
the  wintry  garden. 

He  need  not  have  feared.  Harmony  had  taken 
him  entirely  at  his  word.  "I  am  not  a  beast. 
I  '11  let  you  alone,"  he  had  said.  She  had  had  a 
bad  night,  as  nights  go.  She  had  gone  through 
the  painful  introspection  which,  in  a  thoroughly 
good  girl,  always  follows  such  an  outburst  as 
Peter's.  Had  she  said  or  done  anything  to 
make  him  think  -  -  Surely  she  had  not !  Had 
she  been  wrong  about  Peter  after  all?  Surely 
not  again. 

Wliile  the  Portier's  wife,  waked,  as  may  hap 
pen,  by  an  unaccustomed  silence,  was  standing 
guard  in  the  hall  below,  iron  candlestick  in  hand, 

128 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony,  having  read  the  Litany  through  in 
the  not  particularly  religious  hope  of  getting 
to  sleep,  was  dreaming  placidly.  It  was  Peter 
who  tossed  and  turned  almost  all  night.  Truly 
there  had  been  little  sleep  that  night  in  the 
old  hunting-lodge  of  Maria  Theresa. 

Peter,  still  not  quite  at  ease,  that  evening 
kept  out  of  the  kitchen  while  supper  was  pre 
paring.  Anna,  radical  theories  forgotten  and 
wearing  a  knitted  shawl  against  drafts,  was  mak 
ing  a  salad,  and  Harmony,  all  anxiety  and 
flushed  with  heat,  was  broiling  a  steak. 

Steak  was  an  extravagance,  to  be  cooked 
with  clear  hot  coals  and  prayer. 

"Peter,"  she  called,  "you  may  set  the  table. 
And  try  to  lay  the  cloth  straight." 

Peter,  exiled  in  the  salon,  came  joyously. 
Obviously  the  wretched  business  of  yesterday 
was  forgiven.  He  came  to  the  door,  pipe  in 
mouth. 

"Suppose  I  refuse?"  he  questioned.   "You  - 
you  have  n't  been  very  friendly  with  me  to-day, 
Harry." 

"I?" 

"Don't  quarrel,  you  children,"  cried  Anna, 
beating  eggs  vigorously.  "Harmony  is  always 
friendly,  too  friendly.  The  Portier  loves  her." 

"I'm  sure  I  said  good-evening  to  you." 

"You  usually  say,   'Good-evening,  Peter." 
129 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"And  I  did  not?" 

"You  did  not." 

"Then  —  Good-evening,  Peter." 

"Thank  you." 

His  steady  eyes  met  hers.  In  them  there  was 
a  renewal  of  his  yesterday's  promise,  abase 
ment,  regret.  Harmony  met  him  with  forgive 
ness  and  restoration. 

"Sometimes,"  said  Peter  humbly,  "when  I 
am  in  very  great  favor,  you  say,  '  Good-evening, 
Peter,  dear.'" 

"Good-evening,  Peter,  dear,"  .said  Harmony. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  affairs  of  young  Stewart  and  Marie 
Jedlicka  were  not  moving  smoothly.  Hav 
ing  rented  their  apartment  to  the  Boyers,  and 
through  Marie's  frugality  and  the  extra  month's 
wages  at  Christmas,  which  was  Marie's  annual 
perquisite,  being  temporarily  in  funds  the  sky 
seemed  clear  enough,  and  Walter  Stewart 
started  on  his  holiday  with  a  comfortable  sense 
of  financial  security. 

Mrs.  Boyer,  shown  over  the  flat  by  Stewart 
during  Marie's  temporary  exile  in  the  apart 
ment  across  the  hall,  was  captivated  by  the 
comfort  of  the  little  suite  and  by  its  order. 
Her  housewifely  mind,  restless  with  long  in 
activity  in  a  pension,  seized  on  the  bright  pans 
of  Marie's  kitchen  and  the  promise  of  the  brick- 
and-sheetiron  stove.  She  disapproved  of  Stew 
art,  having  heard  strange  stories  of  him,  but 
there  was  nothing  bacchanal  or  suspicious  about 
this  orderly  establishment.  Mrs.  Boyer  was  a 
placid,  motherly  looking  woman,  torn  from  her 
church  and  her  card  club,  her  grown  children, 
her  household  gods  of  thirty  years'  accumula- 

131 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

tion,   that  "Frank"  might  catch  up  with  his 
profession. 

She  had  explained  it  rather  tremulously  at 
home. 

"Father  wants  to  go,"  she  said.  "You  chil 
dren  are  big  enough  now  to  be  left.  He 's  always 
wanted  to  do  it,  but  we  could  n't  go  while  you 
were  little." 

"But,  mother!"  expostulated  the  oldest  girl. 
"When  you  are  so  afraid  of  the  ocean!  And  a 
year!" 

"What  is  to  be  will  be,"  she  had  replied. 
"  If  I  'm  going  to  be  drowned  I  '11  be  drowned, 
whether  it's  in  the  sea  or  in  a  bathtub.  And  I'll 
not  let  father  go  alone." 

Fatalism  being  their  mother's  last  argument 
and  always  final,  the  children  gave  up.  They 
let  her  go.  More,  they  prepared  for  her  so  elab 
orate  a  wardrobe  that  the  poor  soul  had  had 
no  excuse  to  purchase  anything  abroad.  She 
had  gone  through  Paris  looking  straight  ahead 
lest  her  eyes  lead  her  into  the  temptation  of  the 
shops.  In  Vienna  she  wore  her  home-town  out 
fit  with  determination,  vaguely  conscious  that 
the  women  about  her  had  more  style,  were 
different.  She  priced  unsuitable  garments  wist 
fully,  and  went  home  to  her  trunks  full  of  best 
materials  that  would  never  wear  out.  The 
children,  knowing  her,  had  bought  the  best. 

132 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

To  this  couple,  then,  Stewart  had  rented 
his  apartment.  It  is  hard  to  say  by  what 
psychology  he  found  their  respectability  so 
satisfactory.  It  was  as  though  his  own  status 
gained  by  it.  He  had  much  the  same  feeling 
about  the  order  and  decency  with  which  Marie 
managed  the  apartment,  as  if  irregularity  were 
thus  regularized. 

Marie  had  met  him  once  for  a  walk  along 
the  Graben.  She  had  worn  an  experimental 
touch  of  rouge  under  a  veil,  and  fine  lines  were 
drawn  under  her  blue  eyes,  darkening  them. 
She  had  looked  very  pretty,  rather  frightened. 
Stewart  had  sent  her  home  and  had  sulked  for 
an  entire  evening. 

So  curious  a  thing  is  the  mind  masculine, 
such  an  order  of  disorder,  so  conventional  its 
defiance  of  convention.  Stewart  breaking  the 
law  and  trying  to  keep  the  letter ! 

On  the  day  they  left  for  Semmering  Marie 
was  up  at  dawn.  There  was  much  to  do.  The 
house  must  be  left  clean  and  shining.  There 
must  be  no  feminine  gewgaws  to  reveal  to  the 
Frau  Doktor  that  it  was  not  a  purely  mascu 
line  establishment.  At  the  last  moment,  so 
late  that  it  sent  her  heart  into  her  mouth,  she 
happened  on  the  box  of  rouge  hidden  from  Stew 
art's  watchful  eyes.  She  gave  it  to  the  milk  girl. 

Finally  she  folded  her  meager  wardrobe  and 
133 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

placed  it  in  the  Herr  Doktor's  American  trunk: 
a  marvel,  that  trunk,  so  firm,  so  heavy,  bound 
with  iron.  And  with  her  own  clothing  she  packed 
Stewart's,  the  dress-suit  he  had  worn  once  to 
the  Embassy,  a  hat  that  folded,  strange  Amer 
ican  shoes,  and  books  —  always  books.  The 
Herr  Doktor  would  study  at  Semmering.  When 
all  was  in  readiness  and  Stewart  was  taking  a 
final  survey,  Marie  ran  downstairs  and  sum 
moned  a  cab.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  ask 
him  to  do  it.  Marie's  small  life  was  one  of 
service,  and  besides  there  was  an  element  in 
their  relationship  that  no  one  but  Marie  sus 
pected,  and  that  she  hid  even  from  herself. 
She  was  very  much  in  love  with  this  indifferent 
American,  this  captious  temporary  god  of  her 
domestic  altar.  Such  a  contingency  had  never 
occurred  to  Stewart;  but  Peter,  smoking  gravely 
in  the  little  apartment,  had  more  than  once 
caugjit  a  look  in  Marie's  eyes  as  she  turned  them 
on  the  other  man,  and  had  surmised  it.  It  made 
him  uncomfortable. 

When  the  train  was  well  under  way,  however, 
and  he  found  no  disturbing  element  among 
the  three  others  in  the  compartment,  Stewart 
relaxed.  Semmering  was  a  favorite  resort  with 
the  American  colony,  but  not  until  later  in  the 
winter.  In  December  there  were  rains  in  the 
mountains,  and  low-lying  clouds  that  invested 

134 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

some  of  the  chalets  in  constant  fog.  It  was  not 
until  the  middle  of  January  that  the  little 
mountain  train  became  crowded  with  tourists, 
knickerbockered  men  with  knapsacks,  and 
jaunty  feathers  in  their  soft  hats,  boys  carrying 
ski,  women  with  Alpine  cloaks  and  iron-pointed 
sticks. 

Marie  was  childishly  happy.  It  was  the  first 
real  vacation  of  her  life,  and  more  than  that 
she  was  going  to  Semmering,  in  the  very  shadow 
of  the  Raxalpe,  the  beloved  mountain  of  the 
Viennese. 

Marie  had  seen  the  Rax  all  her  life,  as  it 
towered  thirty  miles  or  so  away  above  the  plain. 
On  peaceful  Sundays,  having  climbed  the  cog 
railroad,  she  had  seen  its  white  head  turn  rosy 
in  the  setting  sun,  and  once  when  a  German 
tourist  from  Munich  had  handed  her  his  field- 
glass  she  had  even  made  out  some  of  the  crosses 
that  showed  where  travelers  had  met  their 
deaths.  Now  she  would  be  very  close.  If  the 
weather  were  good,  she  might  even  say  a  prayer 
in  the  chapel  on  its  crest  for  the  souls  of  those 
who  had  died.  It  was  of  a  marvel,  truly;  so 
far  may  one  go  when  one  has  money  and  leisure. 

The  small  single-trucked  railway  carriages 
bumped  and  rattled  up  the  mountain  sides,  al 
ways  rising,  always  winding.  There  were  mo 
ments  when  the  track  held  to  the  cliffs  only 

135 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

by  gigantic  fingers  of  steel,  while  far  below  were 
peaceful  valleys  and  pink-and-blue  houses  and 
churches  with  gilded  spires.  There  were  vistas 
of  snow-peak  and  avalanche  shed,  and  always 
there  were  tunnels.  Marie,  so  wise  in  some  things, 
was  a  child  in  others ;  she  slid  close  to  Stewart  in 
the  darkness  and  touched  him  for  comfort. 

"It  is  so  dark,"  she  apologized,  "and  it 
frightens  me,  the  mountain  heart.  In  your 
America,  have  you  so  great  mountains?" 

Stewart  patted  her  hand,  a  patronizing  touch 
that  sent  her  blood  racing. 

"Much  larger,"  he  said  magnificently.  "I 
have  n't  seen  a  hill  in  Europe  I  'd  exchange  for 
the  Rockies.  And  when  we  cross  the  moun 
tains  there  we  use  railway  coaches.  These  toy 
railroads  are  a  joke.  At  home  we'd  use  'em  as 
street-cars." 

"Really!   I  should  like  to  see  America." 

"So  should  I." 

The  conversation  was  taking  a  dangerous 
trend.  Mention  of  America  was  apt  to  put  the 
Herr  Doktor  in  a  bad  humor  or  to  depress 
him,  which  was  even  worse.  Marie,  her  hand 
still  on  his  arm  and  not  repulsed,  became  silent. 

At  a  small  way  station  the  three  Germans  in 
the  compartment  left  the  train.  Stewart,  low 
ering  a  window,  bought  from  a  boy  on  the 
platform  beer  and  sausages  and  a  bag  of  pretzels. 

136 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

As  the  train  resumed  its  clanking  progress  they 
ate  luncheon,  drinking  the  beer  from  the  bottles 
and  slicing  the  sausage  with  a  penknife.  It 
was  a  joyous  trip,  a  red-letter  day  in  the  girl's 
rather  sordid  if  not  uneventful  life.  The  Herr 
Doktor  was  pleased  with  her.  He  liked  her 
hat,  and  when  she  flushed  with  pleasure  de 
manded  proof  that  she  was  not  rouged.  Proof 
was  forthcoming.  She  rubbed  her  cheeks 
vigorously  with  a  handkerchief  and  produced 
in  triumph  its  unreddened  purity. 

"Thou  suspicious  one!"  she  pouted.  "I 
must  take  off  the  skin  to  assure  thee !  When  the 
Herr  Doktor  says  no  rouge,  I  use  none." 

:<You're  a  good  child."  He  stooped  over  and 
kissed  one  scarlet  cheek  and  then  being  very 
comfortable  and  the  beer  having  made  him 
drowsy,  he  put  his  head  in  her  lap  and  slept. 

When  he  awakened  they  were  still  higher. 
The  snow-peak  towered  above  and  the  valleys 
were  dizzying!  Semmering  was  getting  near. 
They  were  frequently  in  darkness;  a'nd  between 
the  tunnels  were  long  lines  of  granite  avalanche 
sheds.  The  little  passage  of  the  car  was  full  of 
tourists  looking  down. 

"We  are  very  close,  I  am  sure,"  an  Ameri 
can  girl  was  saying  just  outside  the  doorway. 
"See,  is  n't  that  the  Kurhaus?  There,  it  is  lost 
again." 

137 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  tourists  in  the  passage  were  Americans 
and  the  girl  who  had  spoken  was  young  and 
attractive.  Stewart  noticed  them  for  the  first 
time  and  moved  to  a  more  decorous  distance 
from  Marie. 

Marie  Jedlicka  took  her  cue  and  lapsed  into 
silence,  but  her  thoughts  were  busy.  Perhaps 
this  girl  was  going  to  Semmering  also  and  the 
Herr  Doktor  would  meet  her.  But  that  was 
foolish!  There  were  other  resorts  besides  Sem 
mering,  and  in  the  little  villa  to  which  they  went 
there  would  be  no  Americans.  It  was  childish 
to  worry  about  a  girl  whose  back  and  profile 
only  she  had  seen.  Also  profiles  were  deceptive; 
there  was  the  matter  of  the  ears.  Marie's  ears 
were  small  and  set  close  to  her  head.  If  the 
American  Fraulein's  ears  stuck  out  or  her  face 
were  only  short  and  wide!  But  no.  The  Ameri 
can  Fraulein  turned  and  glanced  once  swiftly 
into  the  compartment.  She  was  quite  lovely. 

Stewart  thought  so,  too.  He  got  up  with  a 
great  show  of  stretching  and  yawning  and 
lounged  into  the  passage.  He  did  not  speak  to 
the  girl;  Marie  noted  that  with  some  comfort. 
But  shortly  after  she  saw  him  conversing  easily 
with  a  male  member  of  the  party.  Her  heart 
sank  again.  Life  was  moving  very  fast  for  Marie 
Jedlicka  that  afternoon  on  the  train. 

Stewart  was  duly  presented  to  the  party 
138 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

of  Americans  and  offered  his  own  cards,  bowing 
from  the  waist  and  clicking  his  heels  together, 
a  German  custom  he  had  picked  up.  The  girl 
was  impressed;  Marie  saw  that.  When  they 
drew  into  the  station  at  Semmering  Stewart 
helped  the  American  party  off  first  and  then 
came  back  for  Marie.  Less  keen  eyes  than  the 
little  Austrian's  would  have  seen  his  nervous 
anxiety  to  escape  attention,  once  they  were  out 
of  the  train  and  moving  toward  the  gate  of  the 
station.  He  stopped  to  light  a  cigarette,  he 
put  down  the  hand-luggage  and  picked  it  up 
again,  as  though  it  weighed  heavily,  whereas 
it  was  both  small  and  light.  He  loitered  through 
the  gate  and  paused  to  exchange  a  word  with  the 
gateman. 

The  result  was,  of  course,  that  the  Americans 
were  in  a  sleigh  and  well  up  the  mountainside 
before  Stewart  and  Marie  were  seated  side  by 
side  in  a  straw-lined  sledge,  their  luggage  about 
them,  a  robe  over  their  knees,  and  a  noisy  driver 
high  above  them  on  the  driving-seat.  Stewart 
spoke  to  her  then,  the  first  time  for  half  an  hour. 

Marie  found  some  comfort.  The  villas  at 
Semmering  were  scattered  wide  over  the  moun 
tain  breast,  set  in  dense  clumps  of  evergreens, 
hidden  from  the  roads  and  from  each  other  by 
trees  and  shrubbery  separated  by  valleys.  One 
might  live  in  one  part  of  Semmering  for  a  month 

139 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  never  suspect  the  existence  of  other  parts, 
or  wander  over  steep  roads  and  paths  for  days 
and  never  pass  twice  over  the  same  one.  The 
Herr  Doktor  might  not  see  the  American  girl 
again  —  and  if  he  did !  Did  he  not  see  American 
girls  wherever  he  went? 

The  sleigh  climbed  on.  It  seemed  they  would 
never  stop  climbing.  Below  in  the  valley  twi 
light  already  reigned,  a  twilight  of  blue  shadows, 
of  cows  with  bells  wandering  home  over  frosty 
fields,  of  houses  with  dark  faces  that  opened  an 
eye  of  lamplight  as  one  looked. 

Across  the  valley  and  far  above  —  Marie 
pointed  without  words.  Her  small  heart  was 
very  full.  Greater  than  she  had  ever  dreamed 
it,  steeper,  more  beautiful,  more  deadly,  and 
crowned  with  its  sunset  hue  of  rose  was  the 
Rax.  Even  Stewart  lost  his  look  of  irritation 
as  he  gazed  with  her.  He  reached  over  and  cov 
ered  both  her  hands  with  his  large  one  under 
the  robe. 

The  sleigh  climbed  steadily.  Marie  Jedlicka, 
in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  leaned  back  and  watched 
the  mountain;  its  crown  faded  from  rose  to 
gold,  from  gold  to  purple  with  a  thread  of  black. 
There  was  a  shadow  on  the  side  that  looked 
like  a  cross.  Marie  stopped  the  sleigh  at  a  way 
side  shrine,  and  getting  out  knelt  to  say  a 
prayer  for  the  travelers  who  had  died  on  the  Rax. 

140 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

They  had  taken  a  room  at  a  small  villa  where 
board  was  cheap,  and  where  the  guests  were 
usually  Germans  of  the  thriftier  sort  from 
Bavaria.  Both  the  season  and  the  modest 
character  of  the  establishment  promised  them 
quiet  and  seclusion. 

To  Marie  the  house  seemed  the  epitome  of 
elegance,  even  luxury.  It  clung  to  a  steep  hill 
side.  Their  room,  on  the  third  floor,  looked 
out  from  the  back  of  the  building  over  the  val 
ley,  which  fell  away  almost  sheer  from  beneath 
their  windows.  A  tiny  balcony  outside,  with 
access  to  it  by  a  door  from  the  bedroom,  looked 
far  down  on  the  tops  of  tall  pines.  It  made 
Marie  dizzy. 

She  was  cheerful  again  and  busy.  The 
American  trunk  was  to  be  unpacked  and  the 
Herr  Doktor's  things  put  away,  his  shoes  in 
rows,  as  he  liked  them,  and  his  shaving  materials 
laid  out  on  the  washstand.  Then  there  was  a 
new  dress  to  put  on,  that  she  might  do  him  credit 
at  supper. 

Stewart's  bad  humor  had  returned.  He  com 
plained  of  the  room  and  the  draft  under  the 
balcony  door;  the  light  was  wrong  for  shaving. 
But  the  truth  came  out  at  last  and  found  Marie 
not  unprepared. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  said,  "I  'm  not  going  to  eat 
with  you  to-night,  dear.  I  'm  going  to  the  hotel." 

141 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"With  the  Americans?" 

;<  Yes.  I  know  a  chap  who  went  to  college  with 
the  brother  —  with  the  young  man  you  saw." 

Marie  glanced  down  at  her  gala  toilet.  Then 
she  began  slowly  to  take  off  the  dress,  reaching 
behind  her  for  a  hook  he  had  just  fastened  and 
fighting  back  tears  as  she  struggled  with  it. 

"Now,  remember,  Marie,  I  will  have  no  sulk- 
ing." 

"I  am  not  sulking." 

"Why  should  you  change  your  clothes?" 

"Because  the  dress  was  for  you.  If  you  are 
not  here  I  do  not  wish  to  wear  it." 

Stewart  went  out  in  a  bad  humor,  which  left 
him  before  he  had  walked  for  five  minutes  in 
the  clear  mountain  air.  At  the  hotel  he  found 
the  party  waiting  for  him,  the  women  in  evening 
gowns.  The  girl,  whose  name  was  Anita,  was 
bewitching  in  pale  green. 

That  was  a  memorable  night  for  Walter 
Stewart,  with  his  own  kind  once  more  —  a  per 
fect  dinner,  brisk  and  clever  conversation,  en 
livened  by  a  bit  of  sweet  champagne,  an  hour 
or  two  on  the  terrace  afterward  with  the  women 
in  furs,  and  stars  making  a  jeweled  crown  for 
the  Rax. 

He  entirely  forgot  Marie  until  he  returned  to 
the  villa  and  opening  the  door  of  the  room  found 
her  missing. 

142 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

She  had  not  gone  far.  At  the  sound  of  his 
steps  she  moved  on  the  balcony  and  came  in 
slowly.  She  was  pale  and  pinched  with  cold,  but 
she  was  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  her  kind.  She 
smiled. 

"Didst  thou  have  a  fine  evening?" 

"Wonderful!" 

"I  am  sorry  if  I  was  unpleasant.  I  was  tired, 
now  I  am  rested." 

"Good,  little  Marie!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  card  in  the  American  Doctors'  Club 
brought  a  response  finally.  It  was  just 
in  time.  Harmony's  funds  were  low,  and  the 
Frau  Professor  Bergmeister  had  gone  to  St. 
Moritz  for  the  winter.  She  regretted  the  English 
lessons,  but  there  were  always  English  at  St. 
Moritz  and  it  cost  nothing  to  talk  with  them. 
Before  she  left  she  made  Harmony  a  present. 
"For  Christmas,"  she  explained.  It  was  a 
glass  pin-tray,  decorated  beneath  with  labels 
from  the  Herr  Professor's  cigars  and  in  the 
center  a  picture  of  the  Emperor. 

The  response  came  in  this  wise.  Harmony 
struggling  home  against  an  east  wind  and 
holding  the  pin-tray  and  her  violin  case,  opened 
the  old  garden  gate  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
leaning  against  it.  It  flew  back  violently,  al 
most  overthrowing  a  stout  woman  in  process 
of  egress  down  the  walk.  The  stout  woman  was 
Mrs.  Boyer,  clad  as  usual  in  the  best  broadcloth 
and  wearing  her  old  sable  cape,  made  over  ac 
cording  to  her  oldest  daughter's  ideas  into  a 
staid  stole  and  muff.  The  muff  lay  on  the  path 
now  and  Mrs.  Boyer  was  gasping  for  breath. 

144 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I'm  so  sorry!"  Harmony  exclaimed.  "It 
was  stupid  of  me;  but  the  wind  -  -  Is  this  your 
muff?" 

Mrs.  Boyer  took  the  muff  coldly.  From  its 
depths  she  proceeded  to  extract  a  handkerchief 
and  with  the  handkerchief  she  brushed  down 
the  broadcloth.  Harmony  stood  apologeti 
cally  by.  It  is  explanatory  of  Mrs.  Boyer's  face, 
attitude,  and  costume  that  the  girl  addressed 
her  in  English. 

"I  backed  in,"  she  explained.  "So  few  people 
come,  and  no  Americans." 

Mrs.  Boyer,  having  finished  her  brushing 
and  responded  to  this  humble  apology  in  her 
own  tongue,  condescended  to  look  at  Harmony. 

"It  really  is  no  matter,"  she  said,  still  coolly 
but  with  indications  of  thawing.  "I  am  only 
glad  it  did  not  strike  my  nose.  I  dare  say  it 
would  have,  but  I  was  looking  up  to  see  if  it 
were  going  to  snow."  Here  she  saw  the  violin 
case  and  became  almost  affable. 

"There  was  a  card  in  the  Doctors'  Club,  and 
I  called  —  "  She  hesitated. 

"I  am  Miss  Wells.  The  card  is  mine." 

"One  of  the  women  here  has  a  small  boy  who 
wishes  to  take  violin  lessons  and  I  offered  to 
come.  The  mother  is  very  busy." 

"I  see.  Will  you  come  in?  I  can  make  you  a 
cup  of  tea  and  we  can  talk  about  it." 

145 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Mrs.  Boyer  was  very  willing,  although  she 
had  doubts  about  the  tea.  She  had  had  no  good 
tea  since  she  had  left  England,  and  was  inclined 
to  suspect  all  of  it. 

They  went  in  together,  Harmony  chatting 
gayly  as  she  ran  ahead,  explaining  this  bit  of 
the  old  staircase,  that  walled-up  door,  here  an 
ancient  bit  of  furniture  not  considered  worthy 
of  salvage,  there  a  closed  and  locked  room, 
home  of  ghosts  and  legends.  To  Harmony  this 
elderly  woman,  climbing  slowly  behind  her,  was 
a  bit  of  home.  There  had  been  many  such  in 
her  life;  women  no  longer  young,  friends  of  her 
mother's  who  were  friends  of  hers;  women  to 
whom  she  had  been  wont  to  pay  the  courtesy 
of  a  potted  hyacinth  at  Easter  or  a  wreath  at 
Christmas  or  a  bit  of  custard  during  an  illness. 
She  had  missed  them  all  cruelly,  as  she  had 
missed  many  things  —  her  mother,  her  church, 
her  small  gayeties.  She  had  thought  at  first 
that  Frau  Professor  Bergmeister  might  allay 
her  longing  for  these  comfortable,  middle-aged, 
placid-eyed  friends  of  hers.  But  the  Frau  Pro 
fessor  Bergmeister  had  proved  to  be  a  frivolous 
and  garrulous  old  woman,  who  substituted  ease 
for  comfort,  and  who  burned  a  candle  on  the 
name-day  of  her  first  husband  while  her  second 
was  safely  out  of  the  house. 

So  it  was  with  something  of  excitement  that 
146 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  led  the  way  up  the  stairs  and  into 
the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa. 

Peter  was  there.  He  was  sitting  with  his  back 
to  the  door,  busily  engaged  in  polishing  the 
horns  of  the  deer.  Whatever  scruples  Harmony 
had  had  about  the  horns,  Peter  had  none  what 
ever,  save  to  get  them  safely  out  of  the  place 
and  to  the  hospital.  So  Peter  was  polishing  the 
horns.  Harmony  had  not  expected  to  find  him 
home,  and  paused,  rather  startled. 

"Oh,  I  did  n't  know  you  were  home." 

Peter  spoke  without  turning. 

"Try  to  bear  up  under  it,"  he  said.  "I'm 
home  and  hungry,  sweetheart!" 

"Peter,  please!" 

Peter  turned  at  that  and  rose  instantly.  It 
was  rather  dark  in  the  salon  and  he  did  not 
immediately  recognize  Mrs.  Boyer.  But  that 
keen-eyed  lady  had  known  him  before  he  turned, 
had  taken  in  the  domesticity  of  the  scene  and 
Peter's  part  in  it,  and  had  drawn  the  swift 
conclusion  of  the  pure  of  heart. 

"I'll  come  again,"  she  said  hurriedly.    "I- 
I  must  really  get  home.  Dr.  Boyer  will  be  there, 
and  wondering  - 

"Mrs.  Boyer!"  Peter  knew  her. 

"Oh,  Dr.  Byrne,  isn't  it?  How  unexpected 
to  find  you  here!" 

"I  live  here." 

147 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"So  I  surmised." 

"Three  of  us,"  said  Peter.  :'You  know  Anna 
Gates,  don't  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.   Really  I  - 

Peter  was  determined  to  explain.  His  very 
eagerness  was  almost  damning. 

"She  and  Miss  Wells  are  keeping  house  here 
and  have  kindly  taken  me  in  as  a  boarder. 
Please  sit  down." 

Harmony  found  nothing  strange  in  the  situa 
tion  and  was  frankly  puzzled  at  Peter.  The  fact 
that  there  was  anything  unusual  in  two  single 
women  and  one  unmarried  man,  unrelated  and 
comparative  strangers,  setting  up  housekeeping 
together  had  never  occurred  to  her.  Many  a 
single  woman  whom  she  knew  at  home  took  a 
gentleman  into  the  house  as  a  roomer,  and  there 
after  referred  to  him  as  "he"  and  spent  hours 
airing  the  curtains  of  smoke  and  even,  as  "he" 
became  a  member  of  the  family,  in  sewing  on  his 
buttons.  There  was  nothing  indecorous  about 
such  an  arrangement;  merely  a  concession  to 
economic  pressure. 

She  made  tea,  taking  off  her  jacket  and  gloves 
to  do  it,  but  bustling  about  cheerfully,  with  her 
hat  rather  awry  and  her  cheeks  flushed  with 
excitement  and  hope.  Just  now,  when  the  Frau 
Professor  had  gone,  the  prospect  of  a  music 
pupil  meant  everything.  An  American  child, 

148 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

too!  Fond  as  Harmony  was  of  children,  the 
sedate  and  dignified  youngsters  who  walked  the 
parks  daily  with  a  governess,  or  sat  with  folded 
hands  and  fixed  eyes  through  hours  of  heavy 
music  at  the  opera,  rather  daunted  her.  They 
were  never  alone,  those  Austrian  children  — 
always  under  surveillance,  always  restrained, 
always  prepared  to  kiss  the  hand  of  whatever 
relative  might  be  near  and  to  take  themselves 
off  to  anywhere  so  it  were  somewhere  else. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  are  going  to  talk  to  me 
about  an  American  child,"  said  Harmony, 
bringing  in  the  tea. 

But  Mrs.  Boyer  was  not  so  sure  she  was  going 
to  talk  about  the  American  child.  She  was  not 
sure  of  anything,  except  that  the  household 
looked  most  irregular,  and  that  Peter  Byrne 
was  trying  to  cover  a  difficult  situation  with 
much  conversation.  He  was  almost  glib,  was 
Peter.  The  tea  was  good;  that  was  one  thing. 

She  sat  back  with  her  muff  on  her  knee,  hav 
ing  refused  the  concession  of  putting  it  on  a  chair 
as  savoring  too  much  of  acceptance  if  not  ap 
proval,  and  sipped  her  tea  out  of  a  spoon  as 
becomes  a  tea-lover.  Peter,  who  loathed  tea, 
lounged  about  the  room,  clearly  in  the  way, 
but  fearful  to  leave  Harmony  alone  with  her. 
She  was  quite  likely,  at  the  first  opportunity, 
to  read  her  a  lesson  on  the  conventions,  if 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

nothing  worse;  to  upset  the  delicate  balance  of 
the  little  household  he  was  guarding.  So  he 
stayed,  praying  for  Anna  to  come  and  bear 
out  his  story,  while  Harmony  toyed  with  her 
spoon  and  waited  for  some  mention  of  the 
lessons.  None  came.  Mrs.  Boyer,  having 
finished  her  tea,  rose  and  put  down  her  cup. 

"That  was  very  refreshing,"  she  said.  "Where 
shall  I  find  the  street-car?  I  walked  out,  but  it 
is  late." 

"I'll  take  you  to  the  car."  Peter  picked  up 
his  old  hat. 

"Thank  you.  I  am  always  lost  in  this 
wretched  town.  I  give  the  conductors  double 
tips  to  put  me  down  where  I  want  to  go;  but 
how  can  they  when  it  is  the  wrong  car?"  She 
bowed  to  Harmony  without  shaking  hands. 
"Thank  you  for  the  tea.  It  was  really  good. 
Where  do  you  get  it?" 

"There  is  a  tea-shop  a  door  or  two  from  the 
Grand  Hotel." 

"I  must  remember  that.  Thank  you  again. 
Good-bye." 

Not  a  word  about  the  lessons  or  the  Ameri 
can  child! 

"You  said  something  about  my  card  in  the 
Doctors'  Club  - 

Something  wistful  in  the  girl's  eyes  caught 
and  held  Mrs.  Boyer. 

150 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

After  all  she  was  the  mother  of  daughters. 
She  held  out  her  hand  and  her  voice  was  not  'so 
hard. 

"That  will  have  to  wait  until  another  time. 
I  have  made  a  social  visit  and  we'll  not  spoil  it 
with  business." 

"But—" 

"I  really  think  the  boy's  mother  must  attend 
to  that  herself.  But  I  shall  tell  her  where  to 
find  you,  and"  — here  she  glanced  at  Peter  — 
"all  about  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Harmony  gratefully. 

Peter  had  no  finesse.  He  escorted  Mrs. 
Boyer  across  the  yard  and  through  the  gate 
with  hardly  a  word.  With  the  gate  closed  be 
hind  them  he  turned  and  faced  her:  - 

"You  are  going  away  with  a  wrong  impression, 
Mrs.  Boyer." 

Mrs.  Boyer  had  been  thinking  hard  as  she 
crossed  the  yard.  The  result  was  a  resolution 
to  give  Peter  a  piece  of  her  mind.  She  drew  her 
ample  proportions  into  a  dignity  that  was 
almost  majesty. 

"Yes?" 

"I--I  can  understand  why  you  think  as 
you  do.  It  is  quite  without  foundation." 

"I  am  glad  of  that."  There  was  no  conviction 
in  her  voice. 

"Of  course,"  went  on  Peter,  .humbling  him- 
151 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

self  for  Harmony's  sake,  "I  suppose  it  has 
been  rather  unconventional,  but  Dr.  Gates  is 
not  a  young  woman  by  any  means,  and  she 
takes  very  good  care  of  Miss  Wells.  There  were 
reasons  why  this  seemed  the  best  thing  to  do. 
Miss  Wells  was  alone  and  — " 

"There  is  a  Dr.  Gates?" 

"Of  course.  If  you  will  come  back  and  wait 
she'll  be  along  very  soon." 

Mrs.  Boyer  was  convinced  and  defrauded  in 
one  breath;  convinced  that  there  might  be  a 
Dr.  Gates,  but  equally  convinced  that  the  situa 
tion  was  anomalous  and  certainly  suspicious; 
defrauded  in  that  she  had  lost  the  anticipated 
pleasure  of  giving  Peter  a  piece  of  her  mind. 
She  walked  along  beside  him  without  speaking 
until  they  reached  the  street-car  line.  Then  she 
turned. 

'You  called  her  —  you  spoke  to  her  very 
affectionately,  young  man,"  she  accused  him. 

Peter  smiled.  The  car  was  close.  Some  imp  of 
recklessness,  some  perversion  of  humor  seized 
him. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Boyer,"  he  said,  "that  was 
in  jest  purely.  Besides,  I  did  not  know  that  you 
were  there!" 

Mrs.  Boyer  was  a  literal  person  without 
humor.  It  was  outraged  American  woman 
hood  incarnate  that  got  into  the  street-car  and 

152 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

settled  its  broadcloth  of  the  best  quality  indig 
nantly  on  the  cane  seat.  It  was  outraged  Ameri 
can  womanhood  that  flung  open  the  door  of 
Marie  Jedlicka's  flat,  and  stalking  into  Marie 
Jedlicka's  sitting  room  confronted  her  husband 
as  he  read  a  month-old  newspaper  from  home. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  woman  doctor 
named  Gates?"  she  demanded. 

Boyer  was  not  unaccustomed  to  such  verbal 
attacks.  He  had  learned  to  meet  domestic 
broadsides  with  a  shield  of  impenetrable  good 
humor,  or  at  the  most  with  a  return  fire  of  mild 
sarcasm. 

"I  never  hear  of  a  woman  doctor  if  it  can  be 
avoided." 

"Dr.  Gates  —  Anna  Gates?" 

"There  are  a  number  here.  I  meet  them  in 
the  hospital,  but  I  don't  know  their  names." 

"Where  does  Peter  Byrne  live?" 

"In  a  pension,  I  believe,  my  dear.  Are  we 
going  to  have  anything  to  eat  or  do  we  sup  of 
Peter  Byrne?" 

Mrs.  Boyer  made  no  immediate  reply.  She 
repaired  to  the  bedroom  of  Marie  Jedlicka,  and 
placed  her  hat,  coat  and  furs  on  one  of  the  beds 
with  the  crocheted  coverlets.  It  is  a  curious 
thing  about  rooms.  There  was  no  change  in 
the  bedroom  apparent  to  the  eye,  save  that  for 
Marie's  tiny  slippers  at  the  foot  of  the  wardrobe 

153 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

there  were  Mrs.  Boyer's  substantial  house  shoes. 
But  in  some  indefinable  way  the  room  had 
changed.  About  it  hung  an  atmosphere  of  solid 
respectability,  of  impeccable  purity  that  soothed 
Mrs.  Boyer's  ruffled  virtue  into  peace.  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  there  is  a  theory  to  the  effect  that 
things  take  on  the  essential  qualities  of  people 
who  use  them,  and  that  we  are  haunted  by 
things,  not  people?  That  when  grandfather's 
wraith  is  seen  in  his  old  armchair  it  is  the 
chair  that  produces  it,  while  grandfather  him 
self  serenely  haunts  the  shades  of  some  vast 
wilderness  of  departed  spirits? 

Not  that  Mrs.  Boyer  troubled  herself  about 
such  things.  She  was  exceedingly  orthodox,  even 
in  the  matter  of  a  hereafter,  where  the  most 
orthodox  are  apt  to  stretch  a  point,  finding  no 
attraction  whatever  in  the  thing  they  are  asked 
to  believe.  Mrs.  Boyer,  who  would  have  re 
garded  it  as  heterodox  to  substitute  any  other 
instrument  for  the  harp  of  her  expectation,  tied 
on  her  gingham  apron  before  Marie  Jedlicka's 
mirror,  and  thought  of  Harmony  and  of  the 
girls  at  home. 

She  told  her  husband  over  the  supper-table 
and  found  him  less  shocked  than  she  had  ex 
pected. 

"It 's  not  your  affair  or  mine,"  he  said.  "It 's 
Byrne's  business." 

154 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Think  of  the  girl!" 

"Even  if  you  are  right  it's  rather  late,  is  n't 
it?" 

:'You  could  tell  him  what  you  think  of  him." 

Dr.  Boyer  sighed  over  a  cup  of  very  excellent 
coffee.    Much  living  with  a  representative  male 
had  never  taught  his  wife  the  reserves  among  ' 
members  of  the  sex  masculine. 

"I  might,  but  I  don't  intend  to,"  he  said. 
"And  if  you  listen  to  me  you'll  keep  the  thing 
to  yourself." 

"I'll  take  precious  good  care  that  the  girl 
gets  no  pupils,"  snapped  Mrs.  Boyer.  And  she 
did  with  great  thoroughness. 

We  trace  a  life  by  its  scars.  Destiny,  march 
ing  on  by  a  thousand  painful  steps,  had  left 
its  usual  mark,  a  footprint  on  a  naked  soul. 
The  soul  was  Harmony's;  the  foot  —  was  it 
not  encased  at  that  moment  in  Mrs.  Boyer's 
comfortable  house  shoes? 

Anna  was  very  late  that  night.  Peter,  having 
put  Mrs.  Boyer  on  her  car,  went  back  quickly. 
He  had  come  out  without  his  overcoat,  and  with 
the  sunset  a  bitter  wind  had  risen,  but  he  was 
too  indignant  to  be  cold.  He  ran  up  the  stair 
case,  hearing  on  all  sides  the  creaking  and  bang 
ing  with  which  the  old  house  resented  a  gale, 
and  burst  into  the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa. 

155 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  was  sitting  sidewise  in  a  chair  by 
the  tea-table  with  her  face  hidden  against  its 
worn  red  velvet.  She  did  not  look  up  when 
he  entered.  Peter  went  over  and  put  a  hand  on 
her  shoulder.  She  quivered  under  it  and  he  took 
it  away. 

"Crying?" 

"A  little,"  very  smothered.  "Just  dis  — 
disappointment.  Don't  mind  me,  Peter." 

"You  mean  about  the  pupil?" 

Harmony  sat  up  and  looked  at  him.  She 
still  wore  her  hat,  now  more  than  ever  askew, 
and  some  of  the  dye  from  the  velvet  had  stained 
her  cheek.  She  looked  rather  hectic,  very  lovely. 

"Why  did  she  change  so  when  she  saw  you?" 

Peter  hesitated.  Afterward  he  thought  of  a 
dozen  things  he  might  have  said,  safe  things. 
Not  one  came  to  him. 

"She  —  she  is  an  evil-thinking  old  woman, 
Harry,"  he  said  gravely. 

"She  did  not  approve  of  the  way  we  are  living 
here,  is  that  it?" 

"Yes." 

"But  Anna?" 

"She  did  not  believe  there  was  an  Anna. 
Not  that  it  matters,"  he  added  hastily.  "I'll 
make  Anna  go  to  her  and  explain.  It 's  her 
infernal  jumping  to  a  conclusion  that  makes  me 
crazy." 

156 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"She  will  talk,  Peter.   I  am  frightened." 

"I'll  take  Anna  to-night  and  we'll  go  to 
Boyer's.  I  '11  make  that  woman  get  down  on 
her  knees  to  you.  I  '11  - 

''You'll  make  bad  very  much  worse,"  said 
Harmony  dejectedly.  "When  a  thing  has  to 
be  explained  it  does  no  good  to  explain  it." 

The  salon  was  growing  dark.  Peter  was  very 
close  to  her  again.  As  in  the  dusky  kitchen 
only  a  few  days  before,  he  felt  the  compelling 
influence  of  her  nearness.  He  wanted,  as  he 
had  never  wanted  anything  in  his  life  before, 
to  take  her  in  his  arms,  to  hold  her  close  and 
bid  defiance  to  evil  tongues.  He  was  afraid  of 
himself.  To  gain  a  moment  he  put  a  chair 
between  them  and  stood,  strong  hands  gripping 
its  back,  looking  down  at  her. 

"There  is  one  thing  we  could  do." 

"What,  Peter?" 

"We  could  marry.  If  you  cared  for  me  even 
a  little  it  —  it  might  not  be  so  bad  for  you." 

"But  I  am  not  in  love  with  you.  I  care  for 
you,  of  course,  but  —  not  that  way,  Peter. 
And  I  do  not  wish  to  marry." 

"Not  even  if  I  wish  it  very  much?" 

((  XT         »5 

JNo. 

"If  you  are  thinking  of  my  future  - 
"I  'm  thinking  for  both  of  us.    And  although 
just  now  you  think  you  care  a  little  for  me,  you 

157 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

do  not  care  enough,  Peter.  You  are  lonely  and 
I  am  the  only  person  you  see  much,  so  you 
think  you  want  to  marry  me.  You  don't  really. 
You  want  to  help  me." 

Few  motives  are  unmixed.  Poor  Peter,  thus 
accused,  could  not  deny  his  altruism. 

And  in  the  face  of  his  poverty  and  the  little 
he  could  offer,  compared  with  what  she  must 
lose,  he  did  not  urge  what  was  the  compelling 
motive  after  all,  his  need  of  her. 

"It  would  be  a  rotten  match  for  you,"  he 
agreed.  "I  only  thought,  perhaps —  You 
are  right,  of  course;  you  ought  not  to  marry." 

"And  what  about  you?" 

"I  ought  not,  of  course." 

Harmony  rose,  smiling  a  little. 

"Then  that's  settled.  And  for  goodness* 
sake,  Peter,  stop  proposing  to  me  every  time 
things  go  wrong."  Her  voice  changed,  grew 
grave  and  older,  much  older  than  Peter's. 
"We  must  not  marry,  either  of  us,  Peter.  Anna 
is  right.  There  might  be  an  excuse  if  we  were 
very  much  in  love:  but  we  are  not.  And  lone 
liness  is  not  a  reason." 

"I  am  very  lonely,"  said  Peter  wistfully. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

>ETER  took  the  polished  horns  to  the  hos 
pital  the  next  morning  and  approached 
Jimmy  with  his  hands  behind  him  and  an  at 
mosphere  of  mystery  that  enshrouded  him  like  a 
cloak.  Jimmy,  having  had  a  good  night  and 
having  taken  the  morning's  medicine  without 
argument,  had  been  allowed  up  in  a  roller 
chair.  It  struck  Peter  with  a  pang  that  the  boy 
looked  more  frail  day  by  day,  more  transparent. 

"I  have  brought  you,"  said  Peter  gravely, 
"the  cod-liver  oil." 

"I've  had  it!" 

"Then  guess." 

"Dad's  letter?" 

"You  Ve  just  had  one.    Don't  be  a  piggy." 

"Animal,  vegetable,  or  mineral?" 

"Vegetable,"  said  Peter  shamelessly. 

"Soft  or  hard!" 

"Soft." 

This  was  plainly  a  disappointment.  A  pair 
of  horns  might  be  vegetable;  they  could  hardly 
be  soft. 

"A  kitten?" 

"A  kitten  is  not  vegetable,  James." 
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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  know.  A  bowl  of  gelatin  from  Harry!" 
For  by  this  time  Harmony  was  his  very  good 
friend,  admitted  to  the  Jimmy  club,  which  con 
sisted  of  Nurse  Elisabet,  the  Dozent  with  the 
red  beard,  Anna  and  Peter,  and  of  course  the 
sentry,  who  did  not  know  that  he  belonged. 

"  Gelatin,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Peter,  and  pro 
duced  the  horns. 

It  was  a  joyous  moment  in  the  long  low  ward, 
with  its  triple  row  of  beds,  its  barred  windows,  its 
clean,  uneven  old  floor.  As  if  to  add  a  touch  of 
completeness  the  sentry  outside,  peering  in, 
saw  the  wheeled  chair  with  its  occupant,  and 
celebrated  this  advance  along  the  road  to  re 
covery  by  placing  on  the  window-ledge  a  wooden 
replica  of  himself,  bayonet  and  all,  carved  from 
a  bit  of  cigar  box. 

"Everybody  is  very  nice  to  me,"  said  Jimmy 
contentedly.  "When  my  father  comes  back  I 
shall  tell  him.  He  is  very  fond  of  people  who 
are  kind  to  me.  There  was  a  woman  on  the 
ship  —  What  is  bulging  your  pocket,  Peter?" 

"My  handkerchief." 

"That  is  not  where  you  mostly  carry  your 
handkerchief." 

Peter  was  injured.  He  scowled  ferociously 
at  being  doubted  and  stood  up  before  the 
wheeled  chair  to  be  searched.  The  ward  watched 
joyously,  while  from  pocket  after  pocket  of 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Peter's  old  gray  suit  came  Jimmy's  salvage  - 
two  nuts,  a  packet  of  figs,  a  postcard  that  rep 
resented  a  stout  colonel  of  hussars  on  his  back 
on  a  frozen  lake,  with  a  private  soldier  waiting 
to  go  through  the  various  salutations  due  his 
rank  before  assisting  him.  A  gala  day,  indeed, 
if  one  could  forget  the  grave  in  the  little  moun 
tain  town  with  only  a  name  on  the  cross  at  its 
head,  and  if  one  did  not  notice  that  the  boy 
was  thinner  than  ever,  that  his  hands  soon 
tired  of  playing  and  lay  in  his  lap,  that  Nurse 
Elisabet,  who  was  much  inured  to  death  and 
lived  her  days  with  tragedy,  caught  him  to  her 
almost  fiercely  as  she  lifted  him  back  from  the 
chair  into  the  smooth  white  bed. 

He  fell  asleep  with  Peter's  arm  under  his 
head  and  the  horns  of  the  deer  beside  him. 
On  the  bedside  stand  stood  the  wooden  sentry, 
keeping  guard.  As  Peter  drew  his  arm  away 
he  became  aware  of  the  Nurse  Elisabet  beckon 
ing  to  him  from  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  ward. 
Peter  left  the  sentinel  on  guard  and  tiptoed 
down  the  room.  Just  outside,  round  a  corner, 
was  the  Dozent's  laboratory,  and  beyond  the 
tiny  closet  where  he  slept,  where  on  a  stand  was 
the  photograph  of  the  lady  he  would  marry  when 
he  had  become  a  professor  and  required  no  one's 
consent. 

The  Dozent  was  waiting  for  Peter.    In  the 
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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

amiable  conspiracy  which  kept  the  boy  happy 
he  was  arch-plotter.  His  familiarity  with  Aus 
trian  intrigue  had  made  him  invaluable.  He 
it  was  who  had  originated  the  idea  of  making 
Jimmy  responsible  for  the  order  of  the  ward,  so 
that  a  burly  Trager  quarreling  over  his  daily 
tobacco  with  the  nurse  in  charge,  or  brawling 
over  his  soup  with  another  patient,  was  likely 
to  be  hailed  in  a  thin  soprano,  and  to  stand, 
grinning  sheepishly,  while  Jimmy,  in  mixed 
English  and  German,  restored  the  decorum 
of  the  ward.  They  were  a  quarrelsome  lot, 
the  convalescents.  Jimmy  was  so  busy  some 
days  settling  disputes  and  awarding  decisions 
that  he  slept  almost  all  night.  This  was  as  it 

•  should  be. 

The  Dozent  waited  for  Peter.   His  red  beard 

.  twitched  and  his  white  coat,  stained  from  the 
laboratory  table,  looked  quite  villainous.     He 

1  held  out  a  letter. 

"This  has  come  for  the  child,"  he  said  in 
quite  good  English.  He  was  obliged  to  speak 
English.  Day  by  day  he  taught  in  the  clinics 
Americans  who  scorned  his  native  tongue,  and 
who  brought  him  the  money  with  which  some 
day  he  would  marry.  He  liked  the  English 
language;  he  liked  Americans  because  they 
learned  quickly.  He  held  out  an  envelope  with 
a  black  border  and  Peter  took  it. 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"From  Paris!"  he  said.  "Who  in  the  world 
• —  I  suppose  I  'd  better  open  it." 

"So  I  thought.  It  appears  a  letter  of  — 
how  you  say  it?  Ah,  yes,  condolence." 

Peter  opened  the  letter  and  read  it.  Then 
without  a  word  he  gave  it  open  to  the  Dozent. 
There  was  silence  in  the  laboratory  while  the 
Dozent  read  it,  silence  except  for  his  canary, 
which  was  chipping  at  a  lump  of  sugar.  Peter's 
face  was  very  sober. 

"So.  A  mother!  You  knew  nothing  of  a 
mother?" 

"Something  from  the  papers  I  found.  She 
left  when  the  boy  was  a  baby  —  went  on  the 
stage,  I  think.  He  has  no  recollection  of  her, 
which  is  a  good  thing.  She  seems  to  have  been 
a  bad  lot." 

"She  comes  to  take  him  away.  That  is  im 
possible." 

"Of  course  it  is  impossible,"  said  Peter 
savagely.  "She's  not  going  to  see  the  child  if 
I  can  help  it.  She  left  because  —  she 's  the  boy's 
mother,  but  that 's  the  best  you  can  say  of  her. 
This  letter-  Well,  you've  read  it." 

"She  is  as  a  stranger  to  him?" 

"Absolutely.  She  will  come  in  mourning  — 
look  at  that  black  border  —  and  tell  him  his 
father  is  dead,  and  kill  him.  I  know  the  type." 

The  canary  chipped  at  his  sugar;  the  red 
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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

beard  of  the  Dozent  twitched,  as  does  the 
beard  of  one  who  plots.  Peter  re-read  the  gush 
ing  letter  in  his  hand  and  thought  fiercely. 

"She  is  on  her  way  here,"  said  the  Dozent. 
"That  is  bad.  Paris  to  Wien  is  two  days  and 
a  night.  She  may  hourly  arrive." 

"We  might  send  him  away  —  to  another  hos 
pital." 

The  Dozent  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Had  I  a  home  -  '  he  said,  and  glanced 
through  the  door  to  the  portrait  on  the  stand. 
"It  would  be  possible  to  hide  the  boy,  at  least 
for  a  time.  In  the  interval  the  mother  might 
be  watched,  and  if  she  proved  a  fit  person  the 
boy  could  be  given  to  her.  It  is,  of  course,  an 
affair  of  police." 

This  gave  Peter  pause.  He  had  no  money 
for  fines,  no  time  for  imprisonment,  and  he 
shared  the  common  horror  of  the  great  jail. 
He  read  the  letter  again,  and  tried  to  read  into 
the  lines  Jimmy's  mother,  and  failed.  He 
glanced  into  the  ward.  Still  Jimmy  slept.  A 
burly  convalescent,  with  a  saber  cut  from  temple 
to  ear  and  the  general  appearance  of  an  assassin, 
had  stopped  beside  the  bed  and  was  drawing 
up  the  blanket  round  the  small  shoulders. 

"I  can  give  orders  that  the  woman  be  not 
admitted  to-day,"  said  the  Dozent.  'That 
gives  us  a  few  hours.  She  will  go  to  the  police, 

164 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  to-morrow  she  will  be  admitted.  In  the 
mean  time  - 

"In  the  mean  time,"  Peter  replied,  "I'll  try 
to  think  of  something.  If  I  thought  she  could 
be  warned  and  would  leave  him  here  - 

"She  will  not.  She  will  buy  him  garments 
and  she  will  travel  with  him  through  the  Riviera 
and  to  Nice.  She  says  Nice.  She  wishes  to  be 
there  for  carnival,  and  the  boy  will  die." 

Peter  took  the  letter  and  went  home.  He  rode, 
that  he  might  read  it  again  in  the  bus.  But  no 
scrap  of  comfort  could  he  get  from  it.  It  spoke 
of  the  dead  father  coldly,  and  the  father  had  been 
the  boy's  idol.  No  good  woman  could  have 
been  so  heartless.  It  offered  the  boy  a  seat  in 
one  of  the  least  reputable  of  the  Paris  theaters 
to  hear  his  mother  sing.  And  in  the  envelope, 
overlooked  before,  Peter  found  a  cutting  from 
a  French  newspaper,  a  picture  of  the  music-hall 
type  that  made  him  groan.  It  was  indorsed 
"Mamma." 

Harmony  had  had  a  busy  morning.  First 
she  had  put  her  house  in  order,  working  deftly, 
her  pretty  hair  pinned  up  in  a  towel  —  all  in 
order  but  Peter's  room.  That  was  to  have  a 
special  cleaning  later.  Next,  still  with  her  hair 
tied  up,  she  had  spent  two  hours  with  her  violin, 
standing  very  close  to  the  stove  to  save  fuel 
and  keep  her  fingers  warm.  She  played  well  that 

165 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

morning:  even  her  own  critical  ears  were  satis 
fied,  and  the  Portier,  repairing  a  window  lock 
in  an  empty  room  below,  was  entranced.  He 
sat  on  the  window  sill  in  the  biting  cold  and  lis 
tened.  Many  music  students  had  lived  in  the 
apartment  with  the  great  salon;  there  had  been 
much  music  of  one  sort  and  another,  but  none 
like  this. 

"She  tears  my  heart  from  my  bosom,"  mut 
tered  the  Portier,  sighing,  and  almost  swallowed 
a  screw  that  he  held  in  his  teeth. 

After  the  practicing  Harmony  cleaned  Peter's 
room.  She  felt  very  tender  toward  Peter  that 
day.  The  hurt  left  by  Mrs.  Boyer's  visit  had  died 
away,  but  there  remained  a  clear  vision  of 
Peter  standing  behind  the  chair  and  offering 
himself  humbly  in  marriage,  so  that  a  bad  sit 
uation  might  be  made  better.  And  as  with  a 
man  tenderness  expresses  itself  in  the  giving  of 
gifts,  so  with  a  woman  it  means  giving  of  ser 
vice.  Harmony  cleaned  Peter's  room. 

It  was  really  rather  tidy.  Peter's  few  belong 
ings  did  not  spread  to  any  extent  and  years  of 
bachelorhood  had  taught  him  the  rudiments 
of  order.  Harmony  took  the  covers  from  wash- 
stand  and  dressing  table  and  washed  and  ironed 
them.  She  cleaned  Peter's  worn  brushes  and 
brought  a  pincushion  of  her  own  for  his  one 
extra  scarf  pin.  Finally  she  brought  her  own 

1G6 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

steamer  rug  and  folded  it  across  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  There  was  no  stove  in  the  room;  it  had 
been  Harmony's  room  once,  and  she  knew  to 
the  full  how  cold  it  could  be. 

Having  made  all  comfortable  for  the  outer 
man  she  prepared  for  the  inner.  She  was  in  the 
kitchen,  still  with  her  hair  tied  up,  when  Anna 
came  home. 

Anna  was  preoccupied.  Instead  of  her  cheery 
greeting  she  came  somberly  back  to  the  kitchen, 
a  letter  in  her  hand.  History  was  making  fast 
that  day. 

"Hello,  Harry,"  she  said.  "I  'm  going  to  take 
a  bite  and  hurry  off.  Don't  bother,  I'll  attend 
to  myself."  She  stuffed  the  letter  in  her  belt 
and  got  a  plate  from  a  shelf.  "How  pretty  you 
look  with  your  head  tied  up!  If  stupid  Peter 
saw  you  now  he  would  fall  in  love  with  you." 

"Then  I  shall  take  it  off.  Peter  must  be 
saved!" 

Anna  sat  down  at  the  tiny  table  and  drank 
her  tea.  She  felt  rather  better  after  the  tea. 
Harmony,  having  taken  the  towel  off,  was  busy 
over  the  brick  stove.  There  was  nothing  said 
for  a  moment.  Then :  - 

"I  am  out  of  patience  with  Peter,"  said  Anna. 

"Why?" 

"Because  he  hasn't  fallen  in  love  with  you. 
Where  are  his  eyes?" 

167 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Please,  Anna!" 

"It's  better  as  it  is,  no  doubt,  for  both 
of  you.  But  it's  superhuman  of  Peter.  I 
wonder  — " 

"Yes?" 

"I  think  I  '11  not  tell  you  what  I  wonder." 

And  Harmony,  rather  afraid  of  Anna's  frank 
speech,  did  not  insist. 

As  she  drank  her  tea  and  made  a  pretense  at 
eating,  Anna's  thoughts  wandered  from  Peter 
to  Harmony  to  the  letter  in  her  belt  and  back 
again  to  Peter  and  Harmony.  For  some  time 
Anna  had  been  suspicious  of  Peter.  From 
her  dozen  years  of  advantage  in  age  and  experi 
ence  she  looked  down  on  Peter's  thirty  years  of 
youth,  and  thought  she  knew  something  that 
Peter  himself  did  not  suspect.  Peter  being 
unintrospective,  Anna  did  his  heart-searching 
for  him.  She  believed  he  was  madly  in  love  with 
Harmony  and  did  not  himself  suspect  it.  As 
she  watched  the  girl  over  her  teacup,  revealing 
herself  in  a  thousand  unposed  gestures  of  youth 
and  grace,  a  thousand  lovelinesses,  something  of 
the  responsibility  she  and  Peter  had  assumed 
came  over  her.  She  sighed  and  felt  for  her  letter. 

"I've  had  rather  bad  news,"  she  said  at  last. 

"From  home?" 

"Yes.  My  father  —  did  you  know  I  have  a 
father?" 

168 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"You  had  n't  spoken  of  him." 

"I  never  do.  As  a  father  he  has  n't  amounted 
to  much.  But  he 's  very  ill,  and  —  I  've  a  con 
science." 

Harmony  turned  a  startled  face  to  her. 

:<You  are  not  going  back  to  America?" 

"  Oh,  no,  not  now,  anyhow.  If  I  become  hag 
ridden  with  remorse  and  do  go  I  '11  find  some 
one  to  take  my  place.  Don't  worry." 

The  lunch  was  a  silent  meal.  Anna  was 
hurrying  off  as  Peter  came  in,  and  there  was  no 
time  to  discuss  Peter's  new  complication  with 
her.  Harmony  and  Peter  ate  together,  Harmony 
rather  silent.  Anna's  unfortunate  comment 
about  Peter  had  made  her  constrained.  After 
the  meal  Peter,  pipe  in  mouth,  carried  the  dishes 
to  the  kitchen,  and  there  it  was  that  he  gave  her 
the  letter.  What  Peter's  slower  mind  had  been 
a  perceptible  time  in  grasping  Harmony  com 
prehended  at  once  —  and  not  only  the  situa 
tion,  but  its  solution. 

"Don't  let  her  have  him!"  she  said,  putting 
down  the  letter.  "Bring  him  here.  Oh,  Peter, 
how  good  we  must  be  to  him!" 

And  that  after  all  was  how  the  thing  was 
settled.  So  simple,  so  obvious  was  it  that  these 
three  expatriates,  these  waifs  and  estrays, 
banded  together  against  a  common  poverty, 
a  common  loneliness,  should  share  without 

169 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

question  whatever  was  theirs  to  divide.  Peter 
and  Anna  gave  cheerfully  of  their  substance, 
Harmony  of  her  labor,  that  a  small  boy  should 
be  saved  a  tragic  knowledge  until  he  was  well 
enough  to  bear  it,  or  until,  if  God  so  willed,  he 
might  learn  it  himself  without  pain. 

The  friendly  sentry  on  duty  again  that  night 
proved  singularly  blind.  Thus  it  happened  that, 
although  the  night  was  clear  when  the  twin 
dials  of  the  Votivkirche  showed  nine  o'clock, 
he  did  not  notice  a  cab  that  halted  across  the 
street  from  the  hospital. 

Still  more  strange  that,  although  Peter  passed 
within  a  dozen  feet  of  him,  carrying  a  wriggling 
and  excited  figure  wrapped  in  a  blanket  and 
insisting  on  uncovering  its  feet,  the  sentry  was 
able  the  next  day  to  say  that  he  had  observed 
such  a  person  carrying  a  bundle,  but  that  it 
was  a  short  stocky  person,  quite  lame,  and  that 
the  bundle  was  undoubtedly  clothing  going  to 
the  laundry. 

Perhaps  —  it  is  just  possible  —  the  sentry 
had  his  suspicions.  It  is  undeniable  that  as 
Jimmy  in  the  cab  on  Peter's  knee,  with  Peter's 
arm  close  about  him,  looked  back  at  the  hos 
pital,  the  sentry  was  going  through  the  manual 
of  arms  very  solemnly  under  the  stars  and  facing 
toward  the  carriage- 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FOR  two  days  at  Semmering  it  rained.  The 
Raxalpe  and  the  Schneeberg  sulked  behind 
walls  of  mist.  From  the  little  balcony  of  the 
Pension  Waldheim  one  looked  out  over  a  sea  of 
cloud,  pierced  here  and  there  by  islands  that 
were  crags  or  by  the  tops  of  sunken  masts  that 
were  evergreen  trees.  The  roads  were  masses 
of  slippery  mud,  up  which  the  horses  steamed 
and  sweated.  The  gray  cloud  fog  hung  over 
everything;  the  barking  of  a  dog  loomed  out  of 
it  near  at  hand  where  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 
Children  cried  and  wild  birds  squawked;  one 
saw  them  not. 

During  the  second  night  a  landslide  occurred 
on  the  side  of  the  mountain  with  a  rumble  like 
the  noise  of  fifty  trains.  In  the  morning,  the 
rain  clouds  lifting  for  a  moment,  Marie  saw  the 
narrow  yellow  line  of  the  slip. 

Everything  was  saturated  with  moisture.  It 
did  no  good  to  close  the  heavy  wooden  shutters 
at  night:  in  the  morning  the  air  of  the  room 
was  sticky  and  clothing  was  moist  to  the  touch. 
Stewart,  confined,  to  the  house,  grew  irritable. 

Marie  watched  him  anxiously.  She  knew 
171 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

quite  well  by  what  slender  tenure  she  held  her 
man.  They  had  nothing  in  common,  neither 
speech  nor  thought.  And  the  little  Marie's 
love  for  Stewart,  grown  to  be  a  part  of  her,  was 
largely  maternal.  She  held  him  by  mothering 
him,  by  keeping  him  comfortable,  not  by  a 
great  reciprocal  passion  that  anight  in  time  have 
brought  him  to  her  in  chains. 

And  now  he  was  uncomfortable.  He  chafed 
against  the  confinement;  he  resented  the  food, 
the  weather.  Even  Marie's  content  at  her 
unusual  leisure  irked  him.  He  accused  her 
of  purring  like  a  cat  by  the  fire,  and  stamped 
out  more  than  once,  only  to  be  driven  in 
by  the  curious  thunderstorms  of  early  Alpine 
winter. 

On  the  night  of  the  second  day  the  weather 
changed.  Marie,  awakening  early,  stepped  out 
on  to  the  balcony  and  closed  the  door  carefully 
behind  her.  A  new  world  lay  beneath  her,  a 
marvel  of  glittering  branches,  of  white  plain 
far  below;  the  snowy  mane  of  the  Raxalpe  was 
become  a  garment.  And  from  behind  the  villa 
came  the  cheerful  sound  of  sleigh-bells,  of  horses' 
feet  on  crisp  snow,  of  runners  sliding  easily 
along  frozen  roads.  Even  the  barking  of  the 
dog  in  the  next  yard  had  ceased  rumbling  and 
become  sharp  staccato. 

The  balcony  extended  round  the  corner  of 
172 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  house.  Marie,  eagerly  discovering  her  new 
world,  peered  about,  and  seeing  no  one  near 
ventured  so  far.  The  road  was  in  view,  and 
a  small  girl  on  ski  was  struggling  to  prevent  a 
collision  between  two  plump  feet.  Even  as 
Marie  saw  her  the  inevitable  happened  and  she 
went  headlong  into  a  drift.  A  governess  who 
had  been  kneeling  before  a  shrine  by  the  road 
hastily  crossed  herself  and  ran  to  the  rescue. 

It  was  a  marvelous  morning,  a  day  of  days. 
The  governess  and  the  child  went  on  out  of 
vision.  Marie  stood  still,  looking  at  the  shrine. 
A  drift  had  piled  about  its  foot,  where  the  gov 
erness  had  placed  a  bunch  of  Alpine  flowers. 
Down  on  her  knees  on  the  balcony  went  the 
little  Marie,  regardless  of  the  snow,  and  prayed 
to  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin  below  —  for  what? 
For  forgiveness?  For  a  better  life?  Not  at  all. 
She  prayed  that  the  heels  of  the  American  girl 
would  keep  her  in  out  of  the  snow. 

The  prayer  of  the  wicked  availeth  nothing; 
even  the  godly  at  times  must  suffer  disappoint 
ment.  And  when  one  prays  of  heels,  who  can 
know  of  the  yearning  back  of  the  praying? 
Marie,  rising  and  dusting  her  chilled  knees,  saw 
the  party  of  Americans  on  the  road,  cktd  in 
stout  boots  and  swinging  along  gayly.  Marie 
shrugged  her  shoulders  resignedly.  She  should 
have  gone  to  the  shrine  itself;  a  balcony  was  not 

173 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

a  holy  place.  But  one  thing  she  determined  — 
the  Americans  went  toward  the  Sonnwendstein. 
She  would  advise  against  the  Sonnwendstein 
for  that  day. 

Marie's  day  of  days  had  begun  wrong  after 
all.  For  Stewart  rose  with  the  Sonnwendstein 
in  his  mind,  and  no  suggestion  of  Marie's  that 
in  another  day  a  path  would  be  broken  had  any 
effect  on  him.  He  was  eager  to  be  off,  com 
mitted  the  extravagance  of  ordering  an  egg 
apiece  for  breakfast,  and  finally  proclaimed 
that  if  Marie  feared  the  climb  he  would  go  alone. 

Marie  made  many  delays :  she  dressed  slowly, 
and  must  run  back  to  see  if  the  balcony  door  was 
securely  closed.  At  a  little  shop  where  they 
stopped  to  buy  mountain  sticks  she  must  pur 
chase  postcards  and  send  them  at  once.  Stewart 
was  fairly  patient:  air  and  exercise  were  having 
their  effect. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when,  having  crossed 
the  valley,  they  commenced  to  mount  the  slope 
of  the  Sonnwendstein.  The  climb  was  easy; 
the  road  wound  back  and  forward  on  itself  so 
that  one  ascended  with  hardly  an  effort. 
Stewart  gave  Marie  a  hand  here  and  there,  and 
even  paused  to  let  her  sit  on  a  boulder  and  rest. 
The  snow  was  not  heavy;  he  showed  her  the 
footprints  of  a  party  that  had  gone  ahead,  and 
to  amuse  her  tried  to  count  the  number  of 

174 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

people.  When  he  found  it  was  five  he  grew 
thoughtful.  There  were  five  in  Anita's  party. 
Thanks  to  Marie's  delays  they  met  the  Ameri 
cans  coming  down.  The  meeting  was  a  short 
one:  the  party  went  on  down,  gayly  talking. 
Marie  and  Stewart  climbed  silently.  Marie's 
day  was  spoiled;  Stewart  had  promised  to  dine 
at  the  hotel. 

Even  the  view  at  the  tourist  house  did  not 
restore  Marie's  fallen  spirits.  What  were  the 
Vienna  plain  and  the  Styrian  Alps  to  her,  with 
this  impatient  and  frowning  man  beside  her 
consulting  his  watch  and  computing  the  time 
until  he  might  see  the  American  again?  What 
was  prayer,  if  this  were  its  answer? 

They  descended  rapidly,  Stewart  always  in 
the  lead  and  setting  a  pace  that  Marie  struggled 
in  vain  to  meet.  To  her  tentative  and  breathless 
remarks  he  made  brief  answer,  and  only  once 
in  all  that  time  did  he  volunteer  a  remark. 
They  had  reached  the  Hotel  Erzherzog  in  the 
valley.  The  hotel  was  still  closed,  and  Marie, 
panting,  sat  down  on  an  edge  of  the  terrace. 

"We  have  been  very  foolish,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"Being  seen  together  like  that." 

"But  why?  Could  you  not  walk  with  any 
woman?" 

"It's  not  that,"  said  Stewart  hastily.  "I 
175 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

suppose  once  does  not  matter.  But  we  can't 
be  seen  together  all  the  time." 

Marie  turned  white.  The  time  had  gone  by 
when  an  incident  of  the  sort  could  have  been 
met  with  scorn  or  with  threats;  things  had 
changed  for  Marie  Jedlicka  since  the  day  Peter 
had  refused  to  introduce  her  to  Harmony.  Then 
it  had  been  vanity;  now  it  was  life  itself. 

"What  you  mean,"  she  said  with  pale  lips, 
"is  that  we  must  not  be  seen  together  at  all. 
Must  I  —  do  you  wish  me  to  remain  a  prisoner 
while  you  —  "  she  choked. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  he  broke  out  brutally, 
"don't  make  a  scene.  There  are  men  cutting 
ice  over  there.  Of  course  you  are  not  a  prisoner. 
You  may  go  where  you  like." 

Marie  rose  and  picked  up  herjnuff. 

Marie's  sordid  little  tragedy  played  itself  out 
in  Semmering.  Stewart  neglected  her  almost 
completely;  he  took  fewer  and  fewer  meals  at 
the  villa.  In  two  weeks  he  spent  one  evening 
with  the  girl,  and  was  so  irritable  that  she 
went  to  bed  crying.  The  little  mountain  resort 
was  filling  up;  there  were  more  and  more 
Americans.  Christmas  was  drawing  near  and  a 
dozen  or  so  American  doctors  came  up,  bringing 
their  families  for  the  holidays.  It  was  difficult  to 
enter  a  shop  without  encountering  some  of  them. 

176 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

To  add  to  the  difficulty,  the  party  at  the  hotel, 
finding  it  crowded  there,  decided  to  go  into  a 
pension  and  suggested  moving  to  the  Waldheim. 

Stewart  himself  was  wretchedly  uncomfort 
able.  Marie's  tragedy  was  his  predicament. 
He  disliked  himself  very  cordially,  loathing 
himself  and  his  situation  with  the  new-born 
humility  of  the  lover.  For  Stewart  was  in  love 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  Marie  knew  it. 
She  had  not  lived  with  him  for  months  without 
knowing  his  every  thought,  every  mood.  She 
grew  bitter  and  hard  those  days,  sitting  alone 
by  the  green  stove  in  the  Pension  Waldheim, 
or  leaning,  elbows  on  the  rail,  looking  from  the 
balcony  over  the  valley  far  below.  Bitter  and 
hard,  that  is,  during  his  absences;  he  had  but  to 
enter  the  room  and  her  rage  died,  to  be  replaced 
with  yearning  and  little,  shy,  tentative  advances 
that  he  only  tolerated.  Wild  thoughts  came  to 
Marie,  especially  at  night,  when  the  stars  made 
a  crown  over  the  Rax,  and  in  the  hotel  an 
orchestra  played,  while  people  dined  and  laughed 
and  loved. 

She  grew  obstinate,  too.  When  in  his  despera 
tion  Stewart  suggested  that  they  go  back  to 
Vienna  she  openly  scoffed. 

"Why?"  she  demanded.  "That  you  may 
come  back  here  to  her,  leaving  me  there?" 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  flung  back  exasperated, 
177 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"this  affair  was  not  a  permanent  one.  You 
knew  that  at  the  start." 

"You  have  taken  me  away  from  my  work. 
I  have  two  months'  vacation.  It  is  but  one 
month." 

"Go  back  and  let  me  pay  — 

"No!" 

In  pursuance  of  the  plan  to  leave  the  hotel 
the  American  party  came  to  see  the  Waldheim, 
and  catastrophe  almost  ensued.  Luckily  Marie 
was  on  the  balcony  when  the  landlady  flung 
open  the  door,  and  announced  it  as  Stewart's 
apartment.  But  Stewart  had  a  bad  five  min 
utes  and  took  it  out,  manlike,  on  the  girl. 

Stewart  had  another  reason  for  not  wishing 
to  leave  Semmering.  Anita  was  beautiful,  a  bit 
of  a  coquette,  too;  as  are  most  pretty  women. 
And  Stewart  was  not  alone  in  his  devotion. 
A  member  of  the  party,  a  New  Yorker  named 
Adam,  was  much  in  love  with  the  girl  and  in 
different  who  knew  it.  Stewart  detested  him. 

In  his  despair  Stewart  wrote  to  Peter  Byrne. 
It  was  characteristic  of  Peter  that,  however 
indifferent  people  might  be  in  prosperity,  they 
always  turned  to  him  in  trouble.  Stewart's 
letter  concluded:  — 

"I  have  made  out  a  poor  case  for  myself; 
but  I  'm  in  a  hole,  as  you  can  see.  I  would  like 

178 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  chuck  everything  here  and  sail  for  home  with 
these  people  who  go  in  January.  But,  confound 
it,  Byrne,  what  am  I  to  do  with  Marie?  And 
that  brings  me  to  what  I  've  been  wanting  to 
say  all  along,  and  have  n't  had  the  courage  to. 
Marie  likes  you  and  you  rather  liked  her,  did  n't 
you?  You  could  talk  her  into  reason  if  anybody 
could.  Now  that  you  know  how  things  are, 
can't  you  come  up  over  Sunday?  It's  asking  a 
lot,  and  I  know  it;  but  things  are  pretty  bad." 

Peter  received  the  letter  on  the  morning  of 
the  day  before  Christmas.  He  read  it  several 
times  and,  recalling  the  look  he  had  seen  more 
than  once  in  Marie  Jedlicka's  eyes,  he  knew  that 
things  were  very  bad,  indeed. 

But  Peter  was  a  man  of  family  in  those  days, 
and  Christmas  is  a  family  festival  not  to  be 
lightly  ignored.  He  wired  to  Stewart  that  he 
would  come  up  as  soon  as  possible  after  Christ 
mas.  Then,  because  of  the  look  in  Marie's  eyes 
and  because  he  feared  for  her  a  sad  Christmas, 
full  of  heartaches  and  God  knows  what  lone 
liness,  he  bought  her  a  most  hideous  brooch, 
which  he  thought  admirable  in  every  way  and 
highly  ornamental  and  which  he  could  not  afford 
at  all.  This  he  mailed,  with  a  cheery  greeting, 
and  feeling  happier  and  much  poorer  made  his 
way  homeward. 


CHAPTER  XV 

/CHRISTMAS-EVE  in  the  saloon  of  Maria 
V»y  Theresa!  Christmas-Eve,  with  the  great 
chandelier  recklessly  ablaze  and  a  pig's  head  with 
cranberry  eyes  for  supper !  Christmas-Eve,  with 
a  two-foot  tree  gleaming  with  candles  on  the 
stand,  and  beside  the  stand,  in  a  huge  chair, 
Jimmy ! 

It  had  been  a  busy  day  for  Harmony.  In 
the  morning  there  had  been  shopping  and 
marketing,  and  such  a  temptation  to  be  reckless, 
with  the  shops  full  of  ecstasies  and  the  old 
flower  women  fairly  overburdened.  There  had 
been  anxieties,  too,  such  as  the  pig's  head, 
which  must  be  done  a  certain  way,  and  Jimmy, 
who  must  be  left  with  the  Portier's  wife  as 
nurse  while  all  of  them  went  to  the  hospital. 
The  house  revolved  around  Jimmy  now,  Jimmy, 
who  seemed  the  better  for  the  moving,  and 
whose  mother  as  yet  had  failed  to  materialize. 

In  the  afternoon  Harmony  played  at  the  hos 
pital.  Peter  took  her  as  the  early  twilight  was 
falling  in  through  the  gate  where  the  sentry 
kept  guard  and  so  to  the  great  courtyard.  In 
this  grim  playground  men  wandered  about, 

180 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

smoking  their  daily  allowance  of  tobacco  and 
moving  to  keep  warm,  offscourings  of  the 
barracks,  derelicts  of  the  slums,  with  here  and 
there  an  honest  citizen  lamenting  a  Christmas 
away  from  home.  The  hospital  was  always 
pathetic  to  Harmony;  on  this  Christmas-Eve 
she  found  it  harrowing.  Its  very  size  shocked 
her,  that  there  should  be  so  much  suffering, 
so  much  that  was  appalling,  frightful,  insup 
portable.  Peter  felt  her  quiver  under  his  hand. 
A  hospital  in  festivity  is  very  affecting. 
It  smiles  through  its  tears.  And  in  every  assem 
blage  there  are  sharply  defined  lines  of  dif 
ference.  There  are  those  who  are  going  home 
soon,  God  willing;  there  are  those  who  will 
go  home  some  time  after  long  days  and  longer 
nights.  And  there  are  those  who  will  never  go 
home  and  who  know  it.  And  because  of  this 
the  ones  who  are  never  going  home  are  most 
festively  clad,  as  if,  by  way  of  compensation, 
the  nurses  mean  to  give  them  all  future  Christ- 
masses  in  one.  They  receive  an  extra  orange, 
or  a  pair  of  gloves,  perhaps,  —  and  they  are 
not  the  less  grateful  because  they  understand. 
And  when  everything  is  over  they  lay  away  in 
the  bedside  stand  the  gloves  they  will  never 
wear,  and  divide  the  extra  orange  with  a  less 
fortunate  one  who  is  almost  recovered.  Their 
last  Christmas  is  past. 

181 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"How  beautiful  the  tree  was!"  they  say. 
Or,  "Did  you  hear  how  the  children  sang? 
So  little,  to  sing  like  that!  It  made  me  think 
—  of  angels." 

Peter  led  Harmony  across  the  courtyard, 
through  many  twisting  corridors,  and  up  and 
down  more  twisting  staircases  to  the  room 
where  she  was  to  play.  There  were  many 
Christmas  trees  in  the  hospital  that  afternoon; 
no  one  hall  could  have  held  the  thousands  of 
patients,  the  doctors,  the  nurses.  Sometimes 
a  single  ward  had  its  own  tree,  its  own  enter 
tainment.  Occasionally  two  or  three  joined 
forces,  preempted  a  lecture-room,  and  wheeled 
or  hobbled  or  carried  in  their  convalescents. 
In'  such  case  an  imposing  audience  was  the 
result. 

Into  such  a  room  Peter  led  Harmony.  It 
was  an  amphitheater,  the  seats  rising  in  tiers, 
half  circle  above  half  circle,  to  the  dusk  of  the 
roof.  In  the  pit  stood  the  tree,  candle-lighted. 
There  was  no  other  illumination  in  the 
room.  The  semi-darkness,  the  blazing  tree, 
the  rows  of  hopeful,  hoping,  hopeless,  ris 
ing  above,  white  faces  over  white  gowns,  the 
soft  rustle  of  expectancy,  the  silence  when 
the  Dozent  with  the  red  beard  stepped  out 
and  began  to  read  an  address  —  all  caught 
Harmony  by  the  throat.  Peter,  keenly  alive 

182 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  everything  she  did,  felt  rather  than  heard 
her  soft  sob. 

Peter  saw  the  hospital  anew  that  dark  after 
noon,  saw  it  through  Harmony's  eyes.  Layer 
after  layer  his  professional  callus  fell  away, 
leaving  him  quick  again.  He  had  lived  so  long 
close  to  the  heart  of  humanity  that  he  had 
reduced  its  throbbing  to  beats  that  might  be 
counted.  Now,  once  more,  Peter  was  back  in 
the  early  days,  when  a  heart  was  not  a  pump, 
but  a  thing  that  ached  or  thrilled  or  struggled, 
that  loved  or  hated  or  yearned. 

The  orchestra,  insisting  on  sadly  sentimental 
music,  was  fast  turning  festivity  into  gloom. 
It  played  Handel's  "Largo";  it  threw  its  whole 
soul  into  the  assurance  that  the  world,  after 
all,  was  only  a  poor  place,  that  Heaven  was  a 
better.  It  preached  resignation  with  every  deep 
vibration  of  the  cello.  Harmony  fidgeted. 

"How  terrible!"  she  whispered.  "To  turn 
their  Christmas-Eve  into  mourning!  Stop 
them!" 

"Stop  a  German  orchestra?" 
'They  are  crying,  some  of  them.  Oh,  Peter!" 

The  music  came  to  an  end  at  last.  Tears  were 
dried.  Followed  recitations,  gifts,  a  speech  of 
thanks  from  Nurse  Elisabet  for  the  patients. 
Then  —  Harmony. 

Harmony  never  remembered  afterward  what 
183 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

she  had  played.  It  was  joyous,  she  knew,  for 
the  whole  atmosphere  changed.  Laughter  came; 
even  the  candles  burned  more  cheerfully.  When 
she  had  finished,  a  student  in  a  white  coat 
asked  her  to  play  a  German  Volkspiel,  and 
roared  it  out  to  her  accompaniment  with  much 
vigor  and  humor.  The  audience  joined  in,  at 
first  timidly,  then  lustily. 

Harmony  stood  alone  by  the  tree,  violin 
poised,  smiling  at  the  applause.  Her  eyes, 
running  along  the  dim  amphitheater,  sought 
Peter's,  and  finding  them  dwelt  there  a  mo 
ment.  Then  she  began  to  play  softly  and  as 
softly  the  others  sang. 

"  Stille  Nacht,  heilige  Nacht,"  — 
they  sang,  with  upturned  eyes. 

"  Alles  schlaft,  einsam  wacht.     .     .     ." 

Visions  came  to  Peter  that  afternoon  in  the 
darkness,  visions  in  which  his  poverty  was  for 
gotten  or  mattered  not  at  all.  Visions  of  a 
Christmas-Eve  in  a  home  that  he  had  earned, 
of  a  tree,  of  a  girl-woman,  of  a  still  and  holy 
night,  of  a  child. 

"  Nur  das  traute,  hoch  heilige  Paar 
Holder  Knabe  im  lockigen  Haar 
Schlaf  in  himmlischer  Ruh', 
Schlaf  in  himmlischer  Ruh'," 

they  sang. 

184 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

There  was  real  festivity  at  the  old  lodge  of 
Maria  Theresa  that  night. 

Jimmy  had  taken  his  full  place  in  the  house 
hold.  The  best  room,  which  had  been  Anna's, 
had  been  given  up  to  him.  Here,  carefully  tended, 
with  a  fire  all  day  in  the  stove,  Jimmy  reigned 
from  the  bed.  To  him  Harmony  brought  her 
small  puzzles  and  together  they  solved  them. 

"Shall  it  be  a  steak  to-night?"  thus  Harmony 
humbly.  "Or  chops?" 

"With  tomato  sauce?" 

"If  Peter  allows,  yes." 

Much  thinking  on  Jimmy's  part,  and  then: — 

"Fish,"  he  would  decide.  "Fish  with  egg 
dressing." 

They  would  argue  for  a  time,  and  compromise 
on  fish. 

The  boy  was  better.  Peter  shook  his  head  over 
any  permanent  improvement,  but  Anna  fiercely 
seized  each  crumb  of  hope.  Many  and  bitter 
were  the  battles  she  and  Peter  fought  at  night 
over  his  treatment,  frightful  the  litter  of  author 
ities  Harmony  put  straight  every  morning. 

The  extra  expense  was  not  much,  but  it  told. 
Peter's  carefully  calculated  expenditures  felt 
the  strain.  He  gave  up  a  course  in  X-ray  on 
which  he  had  set  his  heart  and  cut  off  his  hour 
in  the  coffee-house  as  a  luxury.  There  was  no 
hardship  about  the  latter  renunciation.  Life 

185 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

for  Peter  was  spelling  itself  very  much  in  terms 
of  Harmony  and  Jimmy  those  days.  He  re 
sented  anything  that  took  him  from  them. 

There  were  anxieties  of  a  different  sort  also. 
Anna's  father  was  failing.  He  had  written 
her  a  feeble,  half-senile  appeal  to  let  bygones 
be  bygones  and  come  back  to  see  him  before  he 
died.  Anna  was  Peter's  great  prop.  What 
would  he  do  should  she  decide  to  go  home? 
He  had  built  his  house  on  the  sand,  indeed. 

So  far  the  threatened  danger  of  a  mother  to 
Jimmy  had  not  materialized.  Peter  was  puz 
zled,  but  satisfied.  He  still  wrote  letters  of 
marvelous  adventure;  Jimmy  still  watched  for 
them,  listened  breathless,  treasured  them  under 
his  pillow.  But  he  spoke  less  of  his  father. 
The  open  page  of  his  childish  mind  was  being 
written  over  with  new  impressions.  "Dad" 
was  already  a  memory;  Peter  and  Harmony 
and  Anna  were  realities.  Sometimes  he  called 
Peter  "Dad."  At  those  times  Peter  caught  the 
boy  to  him  in  an  agony  of  tenderness. 

And  as  the  little  apartment  revolved  round 
Jimmy,  so  was  this  Christmas-Eve  given  up  to 
him.  All  day  he  had  stayed  in  bed  for  the 
privilege  of  an  extra  hour  propped  up  among 
pillows  in  the  salon.  All  day  he  had  strung 
little  red  berries  that  looked  like  cranberries  for 
the  tree,  or  fastened  threads  to  the  tiny  cakes 

186 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

that  were  for  trimming  only,  and  sternly  for 
bidden  to  eat. 

A  marvelous  day  that  for  Jimmy.  Late  in 
the  afternoon  the  Portier,  with  a  collar  on,  had 
mounted  the  stairs  and  sheepishly  presented 
him  with  a  pair  of  white  mice  in  a  wooden  cage. 
Jimmy  was  thrilled.  The  cage  was  on  his  knees 
all  evening,  and  one  of  the  mice  was  clearly  ill 
of  a  cake  with  pink  icing.  The  Portier's  gift 
was  a  stealthy  one,  while  his  wife  was  having 
coffee  with  her  cousin,  the  brushmaker.  But 
the  spirit  of  Christmas  does  strange  things. 
That  very  evening,  while  the  Portier  was  rois 
tering  in  a  beer  hall  preparatory  to  the  mid 
night  mass,  came  the  Portier's  wife,  puffing 
from  the  stairs,  and  brought  a  puzzle  box  that 
only  the  initiated  could  open,  and  when  one 
succeeded  at  last  there  was  a  picture  of  the 
Christ-Child  within. 

Young  McLean  came  to  call  that  evening  — 
came  to  call  and  remained  to  worship.  It  was 
the  first  time  since  Mrs.  Boyer  that  a  visitor 
had  come.  McLean,  interested  with  everything 
and  palpably  not  shocked,  was  a  comforting 
caller.  He  seemed  to  Harmony,  who  had  had 
bad  moments  since  the  day  of  Mrs.  Boyer's 
visit,  to  put  the  hallmark  of  respectability  on 
the  household,  to  restore  it  to  something  it  had 
lost  or  had  never  had. 

187 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

T-  She  was  quite  unconscious  of  McLean's 
admiration.  She  and  Anna  put  Jimmy  to  bed. 
The  tree  candles  were  burned  out;  Peter  was 
extinguishing  the  dying  remnants  when  Har 
mony  came  back.  McLean  was  at  the  piano, 
thrumming  softly.  Peter,  turning  round  sud 
denly,  surprised  an  expression  on  the  younger 
man's  face  that  startled  him. 

For  that  one  night  Harmony  had  laid  aside 
her  mourning,  and  wore  white,  soft  white, 
tucked  in  at  the  neck,  short-sleeved,  trailing. 
Peter  had  never  seen  her  in  white  before. 

It  was  Peter's  way  to  sit  back  and  listen: 
his  steady  eyes  were  always  alert,  good-hu 
mored,  but  he  talked  very  little.  That  night 
he  was  unusually  silent.  He  sat  in  the  shadow 
away  from  the  lamp  and  watched  the  two  at 
the  piano :  McLean  playing  a  bit  of  this  or  that, 
the  girl  bending  over  a  string  of  her  violin. 
Anna  came  in  and  sat  down  near  him. 

"The  boy  is  quite  fascinated,"  she  whispered. 
"Watch  his  eyes!" 

"He  is  a  nice  boy."  This  from  Peter,  as  if 
he  argued  with  himself. 

"As  men  go!"  This  was  a  challenge  Peter 
was  usually  quick  to  accept.  That  night  he 
only  smiled.  "It  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
her:  his  people  are  wealthy." 

Money,  always  money!  Peter  ground  his 
188 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

teeth  over  his  pipestem.  Eminently  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  for  Harmony,  this  nice  boy  in 
his  well-made  evening  clothes,  who  spoke 
Harmony's  own  language  of  music,  who  was 
almost  speechless  over  her  playing,  and  who 
looked  up  at  her  with  eyes  in  which  admiration 
was  not  unmixed  with  adoration. 

Peter  was  restless.  As  the  music  went  on 
he  tiptoed  out  of  the  room  and  took  to  pacing 
up  and  down  the  little  corridor.  Each  time  as 
he  passed  the  door  he  tried  not  to  glance  in; 
each  tune  he  paused  involuntarily.  Jealousy 
had  her  will  of  him  that  night,  jealousy,  when 
he  had  never  acknowledged  even  to  himself 
how  much  the  girl  was  to  him. 

Jimmy  was  restless.  Usually  Harmony's 
music  put  him  to  sleep;  but  that  night  he  lay 
awake,  even  after  Peter  had  closed  all  the  doors. 
Peter  came  in  and  sat  with  him  in  the  dark, 
going  over  now  and  then  to  cover  him,  or  to 
give  him  a  drink,  or  to  pick  up  the  cage  of  mice 
which  Jimmy  insisted  on  having  beside  him  and 
which  constantly  slipped  off  on  to  the  floor. 
After  a  time  Peter  lighted  the  night-light,  a 
bit  of  wick  on  a  cork  floating  in  a  saucer  of 
lard  oil,  and  set  it  on  the  bedside  table.  Then 
round  it  he  arranged  Jimmy's  treasures,  the 
deer  antlers,  the  cage  of  mice,  the  box,  the 
wooden  sentry.  The  boy  fell  asleep.  Peter  sat 

189 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

in  the  room,  his  dead  pipe  in  his  teeth,  and 
thought  of  many  things. 

It  was  very  late  when  young  McLean  left. 
The  two  had  played  until  they  stopped  for 
very  weariness.  Anna  had  yawned  herself  off  to 
bed.  From  Jimmy's  room  Peter  could  hear  the 
soft  hum  of  their  voices. 

"You  have  been  awfully  good  to  me,"  McLean 
said  as  he  finally  rose  to  go.  "I  —  I  want  you 
to  know  that  I'll  never  forget  this  evening, 
never." 

"It  has  been  splendid,  hasn't  it?  Since 
little  Scatchy  left  there  has  been  no  one  for  the 
piano.  I  have  been  lonely  sometimes  for  some 
one  to  talk  music  to." 

Lonely!  Poor  Peter! 

"Then  you  will  let  me  come  back?" 

"Will  I,  indeed!    I -- I '11  be  grateful." 

"How  soon  would  be  proper?  I  dare  say 
to-morrow  you'll  be  busy  —  Christmas  and 
all  that." 

"Do  you  mean  you  would  like  to  come  to 
morrow?" 

"If  old  Peter  would  n't  be  fussed.  He  might 
think  - 

"Peter  always  wrants  every  one  to  be  happy. 
So  if  you  really  care  - 

"And  I '11  not  bore  you?" 

"Rather  not!" 

190 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"How  —  about  what  time?" 

"In  the  afternoon  would  be  pleasant,  I  think. 
And  then  Jimmy  can  listen.  He  loves  music." 

McLean,  having  found  his  fur-lined  coat, 
got  into  it  as  slowly  as  possible.  Then  he  missed 
a  glove,  and  it  must  be  searched  for  in  all  the 
dark  corners  of  the  salon  until  found  in  his 
pocket.  Even  then  he  hesitated,  lingered, 
loath  to  break  up  this  little  world  of  two. 

''You  play  wonderfully,"  he  said. 

"So  do  you." 

"If  only  something  comes  of  it!  It's  curious, 
is  n't  it,  when  you  think  of  it?  You  and  I 
meeting  here  in  the  center  of  Europe  and  both 
of  us  working  our  heads  off  for  something  that 
may  never  pan  out." 

There  was  something  reminiscent  about  that 
to  Harmony.  It  was  not  until  after  young 
McLean  had  gone  that  she  recalled.  It  was 
almost  word  for  word  what  Peter  had  said  to 
her  in  the  coffee-house  the  night  they  met. 
She  thought  it  very  curious,  the  coincidence, 
and  pondered  it,  being  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  it  is  always  a  matter  for  wTonder  when  the 
man  meets  the  woman,  no  matter  where. 
Nothing  is  less  curious,  more  inevitable,  more 
amazing.  "You  and  I,"  forsooth,  said  Peter! 
"You  and  I,"  cried  young  McLean! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

QUITE  suddenly  Peter's  house,  built  on 
the  sand,  collapsed.  The  shock  came  on 
Christmas-Day,  after  young  McLean,  now 
frankly  infatuated,  had  been  driven  home  by 
Peter. 

Peter  did  it  after  his  own  fashion.  Harmony, 
with  unflagging  enthusiasm,  was  looking  tired. 
Suggestions  to  this  effect  rolled  off  McLean's 
back  like  rain  off  a  roof.  Finally  Peter  gathered 
up  the  fur-lined  coat,  the  velours  hat,  gloves, 
and  stick,  and  placed  them  on  the  piano  in 
front  of  the  younger  man. 

"I'm  sorry  you  must  go,"  said  Peter  calmly, 
"but,  as  you  say,  Miss  Wells  is  tired  and  there 
is  supper  to  be  eaten.  Don't  let  me  hurry  you." 

The  Portier  was  at  the  door  as  McLean, 
laughing  and  protesting,  went  out.  He  brought 
a  cablegram  for  Anna.  Peter  took  it  to  her 
door  and  waited  uneasily  while  she  read  it. 

It  was  an  urgent  summons  home;  the  old 
father  was  very  low.  He  was  calling  for  her, 
and  a  few  days  or  weeks  would  see  the  end. 
There  were  things  that  must  be  looked  after. 
The  need  of  her  was  imperative.  With  the  death 

192 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  old  man's  pension  would  cease  and  Anna 
was  the  bread-winner. 

Anna  held  the  paper  out  to  Peter  and  sat 
down.  Her  nervous  strength  seemed  to  have 
deserted  her.  All  at  once  she  was  a  stricken, 
elderly  woman,  with  hope  wiped  out  of  her 
face  and  something  nearer  resentment  than 
grief  in  its  place. 

"It  has  come,  Peter,"  she  said  dully.  "I 
always  knew  it  could  n't  last.  They  've  always 
hung  about  my  neck,  and  now — " 

"  Do  you  think  you  must  go?  Is  n't  there  some 
way?  If  things  are  so  bad  you  could  hardly 
get  there  in  time,  and  —  you  must  think  of 
yourself  a  little,  Anna." 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  anything  else.  Peter, 
I'm  an  uncommonly  selfish  woman,  but  I  — " 

Quite  without  warning  she  burst  out  cry 
ing,  unlovely,  audible  weeping  that  shook 
her  narrow  shoulders.  .Harmony  heard  the 
sound  and  joined  them.  After  a  look  at 
Anna  she  sat  down  beside  her  and  put  a 
white  arm  over  her  shoulders.  She  did  not 
try  to  speak.  Anna's  noisy  grief  subsided  as 
suddenly  as  it  came.  She  patted  Harmony's 
hand  in  mute  acknowledgment  and  dried  her 
eyes. 

"I  'm  not  grieving,  child,"  she  said;  "I  'm  only 
realizing  what  a  selfish  old  maid  I  am.  I  'm 

193 


crying  because  I  'm  a  disappointment  to  my 
self.   Harry,  I  'm  going  back  to  America." 

And  that,  after  hours  of  discussion,  was 
where  they  ended.  Anna  must  go  at  once.  Peter 
must  keep  the  apartment,  having  Jimmy  to 
look  after  and  to  hide.  What  was  a  frightful 
dilemma  to  him  and  to  Harmony  Anna  took 
rather  lightly. 

"You  '11  find  some  one  else  to  take  my  place," 
she  said.  "If  I  had  a  day  I  could  find  a  dozen." 

"And  in  the  interval?"  Harmony  asked,  with 
out  looking  at  Peter. 

"The  interval!  Tut!  Peter  is  your  brother, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes.  And  if  you  are  think 
ing  of  scandal -mongers,  who  will  know?" 

Having  determined  to  go,  no  arguments 
moved  Anna,  nor  could  either  of  the  two  think 
of  anything  to  urge  beyond  a  situation  she  re 
fused  to  see,  or  rather  a  situation  she  refused 
to  acknowledge.  She  was  not  as  comfortable 
as  she  pretended.  During  all  that  long  night, 
while  snow  sifted  down  into  the  ugly  yard 
and  made  it  beautiful,  while  Jimmy  slept  and 
the  white  mice  played,  while  Harmony  tossed 
and  tried  to  sleep  and  Peter  sat  in  his  cold  room 
and  smoked  his  pipe,  Anna  packed  her  untidy 
belongings  and  added  a  name  now  and  then  to 
a  list  that  was  meant  for  Peter,  a  list  of  possible 
substitutes  for  herself  in  the  little  household. 

194 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

She  left  early  the  next  morning,  a  grim  little 
person  who  bent  over  the  sleeping  boy  hun 
grily,  and  insisted  on  carrying  her  own  bag 
down  the  stairs.  Harmony  did  not  go  to 
the  station,  but  stayed  at  home,  pale  and 
silent,  hovering  around  against  Jimmy's  awak 
ening  and  struggling  against  a  feeling  of  panic. 
Not  that  she  feared  Peter  or  herself.  But 
she  was  conventional ;  shielded  girls  are  ac 
customed  to  lean  for  a  certain  support  on 
the  proprieties,  as  bridgeplayers  depend  on 
rules. 

Peter  came  back  to  breakfast,  but  ate  little. 
Harmony  did  not  even  sit  down,  but  drank  her 
cup  of  coffee  standing,  looking  down  at  the 
snow  below.  Jimmy  still  slept. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  said  Peter. 

"I  'm  not  hungry,  thank  you." 

:'You  can  sit  down  without  eating." 

Peter  was  nervous.  To  cover  his  uneasiness 
he  was  distinctly  gruff.  He  pulled  a  chair  out 
for  her  and  she  sat  down.  Now  that  they  were 
face  to  face  the  tension  was  lessened.  Peter 
laid  Anna's  list  on  the  table  between  them  and 
bent  over  it  toward  her. 

:<You  are  hurting  me  very  much,  Harry," 
he  said.  "Do  you  know  why?" 

"I?  I  am  only  sorry  about  Anna.  I  miss 
her.  I  —  I  was  fond  of  her." 

195 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"So  was  I.  But  that  isn't  it,  Harry.  It's 
something  else." 

"I'm  uncomfortable,  Peter." 

"  So  am  I.  I  'm  sorry  you  don't  trust  me.  For 
that's  it." 

"Not  at  all.  But,  Peter,  what  will  people 
say?" 

"A  great  deal,  if  they  know.  Who  is  to  know? 
How  many  people  know  about  us?  A  handful, 
at  the  most,  McLean  and  Mrs.  Boyer  and  one 
or  two  others.  Of  course  I  can  go  away  until  we 
get  some  one  to  take  Anna's  place,  but  you'd 
be  here  alone  at  night,  and  if  the  youngster 
had  an  attack  — 

"Oh,  no,  don't  leave  him!" 

"It's  holiday  time.  There  are  no  clinics 
until  next  week.  If  you  '11  put  up  with  me  — " 

"Put  up  with  you,  when  it  is  your  apart 
ment  I  use,  your  food  I  eat!"  She  almost 
choked.  "Peter,  I  must  talk  about  money." 

"I'm  coming  to  that.  Don't  you  suppose 
you  more  than  earn  everything?  Doesn't  it 
humiliate  me  hourly  to  see  you  working  here?" 

"Peter!  Would  you  rob  me  of  my  last  vestige 
of  self-respect?" 

This  being  unanswerable,  Peter  fell  back  on 
his  major  premise: 

"If  you'll  put  up  with  me  for  a  day  or  so 
I  '11  take  this  list  of  Anna's  and  hunt  up  some- 

196 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

body.    Just  describe  the  person  you  desire  and 
I  '11  find  her."    He  assumed  a  certainty  he  was 
far  from  feeling,  but  it  reassured  the  girl.    "A 
woman,  of  course?" 
'."Of  course.    And  not  young." 

"  'Not  young,'"  wrote  Peter.    "Fat?" 

Harmony  recalled  Mrs.  Boyer's  ample  figure 
and  shook  her  head. 

"Not  too  stout.  And  agreeable.  That's  most 
important." 

"  'Agreeable,'"  wrote  Peter.  "Although  Anna 
was  hardly  agreeable,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the 
word,  was  she?" 

"She  was  interesting,  and  —  and  human." 

"  ' Human ! ' "  wrote  Peter.  "Wanted,  a 
woman,  not  young,  not  too  stout,  agreeable 
and  human.  Shall  I  advertise?" 

The  strain  was  quite  gone  by  that  time. 
Harmony  was  smiling.  Jimmy,  waking,  called 
for  food,  and  the  morning  of  the  first  day  was 
under  way. 

Peter  was  well  content  that  morning,  in  spite 
of  an  undercurrent  of  uneasiness.  Before  this 
Anna  had  shared  his  proprietorship  with  him. 
Now  the  little  household  was  his.  His  vicari 
ous  domesticity  pleased  him.  He  strutted  about, 
taking  a  new  view  of  his  domain;  he  tightened 
a  doorknob  and  fastened  a  noisy  window.  He 
inspected  the  coal-supply  and  grumbled  over 

197 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

its  quality.  He  filled  the  copper  kettle  on  the 
stove,  carried  in  the  water  for  Jimmy's  morning 
bath,  cleaned  the  mouse  cage.  He  even  insisted 
on  peeling  the  little  German  potatoes,  until 
Harmony  cried  aloud  at  his  wastefulness  and 
took  the  knife  from  him. 

And  afterward,  while  Harmony  in  the  sick 
room  read  aloud  and  Jimmy  put  the  wooden 
sentry  into  the  cage  to  keep  order,  he  got  out 
his  books  and  tried  to  study.  But  he  did  little 
work.  His  book  lay  on  his  knee,  his  pipe  died 
beside  him.  The  strangeness  of  the  situation 
came  over  him,  sitting  there,  and  left  him 
rather  frightened.  He  tried  to  see  it  from  the 
viewpoint  of  an  outsider,  and  found  himself 
incredulous  and  doubting.  McLean  would  re 
sent  the  situation.  Even  the  Portier  was  a 
person  to  reckon  with.  The  skepticism  of  the 
American  colony  was  a  thing  to  fear  and  avoid. 

And  over  all  hung  the  incessant  worry  about 
money;  he  could  just  manage  alone.  He  could 
not,  by  any  method  he  knew  of,  stretch  his  re 
sources  to  cover  a  separate  arrangement  for 
himself.  But  he  had  undertaken  to  shield  a 
girl-woman  and  a  child,  and  shield  them  he 
would  and  could. 

Brave  thoughts  were  Peter's  that  snowy 
morning  in  the  great  salon  of  Maria  Theresa, 
with  the  cat  of  the  Portier  purring  before  the 

198 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

fire;  brave  thoughts,  cool  reason,  with  Harmony 
practicing  scales  very  softly  while  Jimmy  slept, 
and  with  Anna  speeding  through  a  white  world, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  bitter  meditation. 

Peter  had  meant  to  go  to  Semmering  that 
day,  but  even  the  urgency  of  Marie's  need 
faded  before  his  own  situation.  He  wired 
Stewart  that  he  would  come  as  soon  as  he  could, 
and  immediately  after  lunch  departed  for  the 
club,  Anna's  list  in  his  pocket,  Harmony's 
requirements  in  mind.  He  paused  at  Jimmy's 
door  on  his  way  out. 

"What  shall  it  be  to-day?"  he  inquired.  "A 
postcard  or  a  crayon?" 

"I  wish  I  could  have  a  dog." 

"We'll  have  a  dog  when  you  are  better  and 
can  take  him  walking.  Wait  until  spring,  son." 

"Some  more  mice?" 

"You  will  have  them  —  but  not  to-day." 

"What  holiday  comes  next?" 

"New  Year's  Day.  Suppose  I  bring  you  a 
New  Year's  card." 

"That's  right,"  "agreed  Jimmy.  "One  I 
can  send  to  Dad.  Do  you  think  he  will  come 
back  this  year?"  wistfully. 

Peter  dropped  on  his  baggy  knees  beside  the 
bed  and  drew  the  little  wasted  figure  to  him. 

"I  think  you'll  surely  see  him  this  year,  old 
man,"  he  said  huskily. 

199 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Peter  walked  to  the  Doctors'  Club.  On  the 
way  he  happened  on  little  Georgiev,  the  Bul 
garian,  and  they  went  on  together.  Peter  man 
aged  to  make  out  that  Georgiev  was  studying 
English,  and  that  he  desired  to  know  the 
state  of  health  and  the  abode  of  the  Fraulein 
Wells.  Peter  evaded  the  latter  by  the  simple 
expedient  of  pretending  not  to  understand. 
The  little  Bulgarian  watched  him  earnestly, 
his  smouldering  eyes  not  without  suspicion. 
There  had  been  much  talk  in  the  Pension 
Schwarz  about  the  departure  together  of  the 
three  Americans.  The  Jew  from  Galicia  still 
raved  over  Harmony's  beauty. 

Georgiev  rather  hoped,  by  staying  by  Peter, 
to  be  led  toward  his  star.  But  Peter  left  him  at 
the  Doctors'  Club,  still  amiable,  but  absolutely 
obtuse  to  the  question  nearest  the  little  spy's 
heart. 

The  club  was  almost  deserted.  The  holidays 
had  taken  many  of  the  members  out  of  town. 
Other  men  were  taking  advantage  of  the  vaca 
tion  to  see  the  city,  or  to  make  acquaintance 
again  with  families  they  had  hardly  seen  during 
the  busy  weeks  before  Christmas.  The  room 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs  where  the  wives  of  the 
members  were  apt  to  meet  for  chocolate  and  to 
exchange  the  addresses  of  dressmakers  was 
empty;  in  the  reading  room  he  found  McLean. 

200 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Although  not  a  member,  McLean  was  a  sort 
of  honorary  habitue,  being  allowed  the  priv 
ilege  of  the  club  in  exchange  for  a  dependable 
willingness  to  play  at  entertainments  of  all 
sorts. 

It  was  in  Peter's  mind  to  enlist  McLean's 
assistance  in  his  difficulties.  McLean  knew 
a  good  many  people.  He  was  popular,  good- 
looking,  and  in  a  colony  where,  unlike  London 
and  Paris,  the  great  majority  were  people  of 
moderate  means,  he  was  conspicuously  well  off. 
But  he  was  also  much  younger  than  Peter  and 
intolerant  with  the  insolence  of  youth.  Peter 
was  thinking  hard  as  he  took  off  his  overcoat 
and  ordered  beer. 

The  boy  was  in  love  with  Harmony  already; 
Peter  had  seen  that,  as  he  saw  many  things. 
How  far  his  love  might  carry  him,  Peter  had 
no  idea.  It  seemed  to  him,  as  he  sat  across  the 
reading-table  and  studied  him  over  his  magazine, 
that  McLean  would  resent  bitterly  the  girl's 
position,  and  that  when  he  learned  it  a  crisis 
might  be  precipitated. 

One  of  three  things  might  happen :  He  might 
bend  all  his  energies  to  second  Peter's  effort  to 
fill  Anna's  place,  to  find  the  right  person;  he 
might  suggest  taking  Anna's  place  himself, 
and  insist  that  his  presence  in  the  apartment 
would  be  as  justifiable  as  Peter's;  or  he  might 

201 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

do  at  once  the  thing  Peter  felt  he  would  do 
eventually,  cut  the  knot  of  the  difficulty  by 
asking  Harmony  to  marry  him.  Peter,  greeting 
him  pleasantly,  decided  not  to  tell  him  any 
thing,  to  keep  him  away  if  possible  until  the 
thing  was  straightened  out,  and  to  wait  for 
an  hour  at  the  club  in  the  hope  that  a  solution 
might  stroll  in  for  chocolate  and  gossip. 

In  any  event  explanation  to  McLean  would 
have  required  justification.  Peter  disliked  the 
idea.  He  could  humble  himself,  if  necessary, 
to  a  woman;  he  could  admit  his  asininity  in 
assuming  the  responsibility  of  Jimmy,  for  in 
stance,  and  any  woman  worthy  of  the  name,  or 
worthy  of  living  in  the  house  with  Harmony, 
would  understand.  But  McLean  was  young, 
intolerant.  He  was  more  than  that,  though 
Peter,  concealing  from  himself  just  what  Har 
mony  meant  to  him,  would  not  have  admitted 
a  rival  for  what  he  had  never  claimed.  But 
a  rival  the  boy  was.  Peter,  calmly  reading 
a  magazine  and  drinking  his  Munich  beer, 
was  in  the  grip  of  the  fiercest  jealousy.  He 
turned  pages  automatically,  to  recall  nothing 
of  what  he  had  read. 

McLean,  sitting  across  from  him,  watched 
him  surreptitiously.  Big  Peter,  aggressively 
masculine,  heavy  of  shoulder,  direct  of  speech 
and  eye,  was  to  him  the  embodiment  of  all 

202 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

that  a  woman  should  desire  in  a  man.  He,  too, 
was  jealous,  but  humbly  so.  Unlike  Peter  he 
knew  his  situation,  was  young  enough  to  glory 
in  it.  Shameless  love  is  always  young;  with 
years  comes  discretion,  perhaps  loss  of  confi 
dence.  The  Crusaders  were  youths,  pursuing 
an  idea  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  and  flaunting 
a  lady's  guerdon  from  spear  or  saddle-bow. 
The  older  men  among  them  tucked  the  hand 
kerchief  or  bit  of  a  gauntleted  glove  under 
jerkin  and  armor  near  the  heart,  and  flung 
to  the  air  the  guerdon  of  some  light  o'  love. 
McLean  would  have  shouted  Harmony's  name 
from  the  housetops.  Peter  did  not  acknowl 
edge  even  to  himself  that  he  was  in  love  with 
her. 

It  occurred  to  McLean  after  a  time  that 
Peter  being  in  the  club,  and  Harmony  being 
in  all  probability  at  home,  it  might  be  pos 
sible  to  see  her  alone  for  a  few  minutes.  He 
had  not  intended  to  go  back  to  the  house  in  the 
Siebensternstrasse  so  soon  after  being  peremp 
torily  put  out;  he  had  come  to  the  club  with  the 
intention  of  clinching  his  resolution  with  a  game 
of  cribbage.  But  fate  was  playing  into  his 
hands.  There  was  no  cribbage  player  round, 
and  Peter  himself  sat  across  deeply  immersed  in 
a  magazine.  McLean  rose,  not  stealthily,  but 
without  unnecessary  noise. 

203 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

So  far  so  good.  Peter  turned  a  page  and 
went  on  reading.  McLean  sauntered  to  a  win 
dow,  hands  in  pockets.  He  even  whistled  a 
trifle,  under  his  breath,  to  prove  how  very  casual 
were  his  intentions.  Still  whistling,  he  moved 
toward  the  door.  Peter  turned  another  page, 
which  was  curiously  soon  to  have  read  two  col 
umns  of  small  type  without  illustrations. 

Once  out  in  the  hall  McLean's  movements 
gained  aim  and  precision.  He  got  his  coat,  hat 
and  stick,  flung  the  first  over  his  arm  and  the 
second  on  his  head,  and  — 

"Going  out?"  asked  Peter  calmly. 

''Yes,  nothing  to  do  here.  I  've  read  all  the 
infernal  old  magazines  until  I  'm  sick  of  them." 
Indignant,  too,  from  his  tone.  / 

"Walking?" 

"Yes." 

"Mind  if  I  go  with  you?" 

"Not  at  all." 

Peter,  taking  down  his  old  overcoat  from 
its  hook,  turned  and  caught  the  boy's  eye.  It 
was  a  swift  exchange  of  glances,  but  illuminating 
—  Peter's  whimsical,  but  with  a  sort  of  grim 
determination;  McLean's  sheepish,  but  equally 
determined. 

"Rotten  afternoon,"  said  McLean  as  they 
started  for  the  stairs.  "Half  rain,  half  snow. 
Streets  are  ankle-deep." 

204 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"  I  'm  not  particularly  keen  about  walking, 
but  —  I  don't  care  for  this  tomb  alone." 

Nothing  was  further  from  McLean's  mind 
than  a  walk  with  Peter  that  afternoon.  He 
hesitated  halfway  down  the  upper  flight. 

"You  don't  care  for  cribbage,  do  you?" 

"Don't  know  anything  about  it.  How  about 
pinochle?" 

They  had  both  stopped,  equally  determined, 
equally  hesitating. 

"Pinochle  it  is,"  acquiesced  McLean.  "I 
was  only  going  because  there  was  nothing  to 
do." 

Things  went  very  well  for  Peter  that  after 
noon  —  up  to  a  certain  point.  He  beat  McLean 
unmercifully,  playing  with  cold  deliberation. 
McLean  wearied,  fidgeted,  railed  at  his  luck. 
Peter  played  on  grimly. 

The  club  filled  up  toward  the  coffee-hour. 
Two  or  three  women,  wives  of  members,  a  young 
girl  to  whom  McLean  had  been  rather  atten 
tive  before  he  met  Harmony  and  who  bridled 
at  the  abstracted  bow  he  gave  her.  And,  finally, 
when  hope  in  Peter  was  dead,  one  of  the  women 
on  Anna's  list. 

Peter,  laying  down  pairs  and  marking  up 
score,  went  over  Harmony's  requirements.  Dr. 
Jennings  seemed  to  fit  them  all,  a  woman,  not 
young,  not  too  stout,  agreeable  and  human. 

205 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

She  was  a  large,  almost  bovinely  placid  person, 
not  at  all  reminiscent  of  Anna.  She  was  neat 
where  Anna  had  been  disorderly,  \vell  dressed 
and  breezy  against  Anna's  dowdiness  and  sharp 
ness.  Peter,  having  totaled  the  score,  rose  and 
looked  down  at  McLean. 

:' You're  a  nice  lad,"  he  said,  smiling.  "Some 
time  I  shall  teach  you  the  game." 

"How    about    a    lesson    to-night    in    Seven- 
Star  Street?" 

"To-night?  Why,  I  'm  sorry.  We  have  an  en 
gagement  for  to-night." 

The  "we"  was  deliberate  and  cruel.  McLean 
writhed.  Also  the  statement  was  false,  but  the 
boy  was  spared  that  knowledge  for  the  moment. 
I  Things  went  well.  Dr.  Jennings  was  badly 
off  for  quarters.  She  would  make  a  change  if 
she  could  better  herself.  Peter  drew  her  off  to  a 
corner  and  stated  his  case.  She  listened  atten 
tively,  albeit  not  without  disapproval. 

She  frankly  discredited  the  altruism  of  Peter's 
motives  when  he  told  her  about  Harmony.  But 
\  as  the  recital  went  on  she  found  herself  rather 
touched.  The  story  of  Jimmy  appealed  to  her. 
She  scolded  and  lauded  Peter  in  one  breath,  and 
what  was  more  to  the  point,  she  promised  to  visit 
the  house  in  the  Siebensternstrasse  the  next  day. 

"So  Anna  Gates  has  gone  home!"  she  re 
flected.    "When?" 

206 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"This  morning." 

"Then  the  girl  is  there  alone?" 

:'Yes.  She  is  very  young  and  inexperienced, 
and  the  boy  —  it 's  myocarditis.  She 's  afraid 
to  be  left  with  him." 

"Is  she  quite  alone?" 

"Absolutely,  and  without  funds,  except 
enough  for  her  lessons.  Our  arrangement  was 
that  she  should  keep  the  house  going;  that  was 
her  share." 

Dr.  Jennings  was  impressed.  It  was  impos 
sible  to  talk  to  Peter  and  not  believe  him. 
Women  trusted  Peter  always. 

:<  You've  been  very  foolish,  Dr.  Byrne,"  she 
said  as  she  rose;  "but  you  've  been  disinterested 
enough  to  offset  that  and  to  put  some  of  us  to 
shame.  To-morrow  at  three,  if  it  suits  you. 
You  said  the  Siebensternstrasse?" 

Peter  went  home  exultant.  , 


CHAPTER  XVII 

CHRISTMAS-DAY  had  had  a  softening 
\~s  effect  on  Mrs.  Boyer.  It  had  opened 
badly.  It  was  the  first  Christmas  she  had  spent 
away  from  her  children,  and  there  had  been 
little  of  the  holiday  spirit  in  her  attitude  as  she 
prepared  the  Christmas  breakfast.  After  that, 
however,  things  happened. 

In  the  first  place,  under  her  plate  she  had 
found  a  frivolous  chain  and  pendant  which  she 
had  admired.  And  when  her  eyes  filled  up,  as 
they  did  whenever  she  was  emotionally  moved, 
the  doctor  had  come  round  the  table  and  put 
both  his  arms  about  her. 

"Too  young  for  you?  Not  a  bit!"  he  said 
heartily.  "You 're  better-looking  than  you  ever 
were,  Jennie;  and  if  you  weren't  you're  the 
only  woman  for  me,  anyhow.  Don't  you  think 
I  realize  what  this  exile  means  to  you  and  that 
you  're  doing  it  for  me?" 

"I--I   don't  mind   it." 

"Yes,  you  do.  To-night  we'll  go  out  and  make 
a  night  of  it,  shall  we?  Supper  at  the  Grand, 
the  theater,  and  then  the  Tabarin,  eh?" 

She  loosened  herself  from  his  arms. 
208 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"What  shall  I  wear?  Those  horrible  things 
the  children  bought  me  - 

'Throw  'em  away." 

"They're  not  worn  at  all." 

"Throw  them  out.  Get  rid  of  the  things  the 
children  got  you.  Go  out  to-morrow  and  buy 
something  you  like  —  not  that  I  don't  like 
you  in  anything  or  without — " 

"Frank!" 

"Be  happy,  that's  the  thing.  It's  the  first 
Christmas  without  the  family,  and  I  miss  them 
too.  But  we  're  together,  dear.  That 's  the  big 
thing.  Merry  Christmas." 

An  auspicious  opening,  that,  to  Christmas- 
Day.  And  they  had  carried  out  the  program 
as  outlined.  Mrs.  Boyer  had  enjoyed  it,  albeit 
a  bit  horrified  at  the  Christmas  gayety  at  the 
Tabarin. 

The  next  morning,  however,  she  awakened 
with  a  keen  reaction.  Her  head  ached.  She 
had  a  sense  of  taint  over  her.  She  was  virtue 
rampant  again,  as  on  the  day  she  had  first 
visited  the  old  lodge  in  the  Siebensternstrasse. 

It  is  hardly  astonishing  that  by  association 
of  ideas  Harmony  came  into  her  mind  again, 
a  brand  that  might  even  yet  be  snatched  from 
the  burning.  She  had  been  a  bit  hasty 
before,  she  admitted  to  herself.  There  was  a 
woman  doctor  named  Gates,  although  her  ad- 

209 


dress  at  the  club  was  given  as  Pension  Schwarz. 
She  determined  to  do  her  shopping  early  and 
then  to  visit  the  house  in  the  Siebensternstrasse. 
She  was  not  a  hard  woman,  for  all  her  inflex 
ible  morality,  and  more  than  once  she  had  had 
an  uneasy  memory  of  Harmony's  bewildered, 
almost  stricken  face  the  afternoon  of  her  visit. 
She  had  been  a  watchful  mother  over  a  not  par 
ticularly  handsome  family  of  daughters.  This 
lovely  young  girl  needed  mothering  and  she 
had  refused  it.  She  would  go  back,  and  if  she 
found  she  had  been  wrong  and  the  girl  was 
deserving  and  honest,  she  would  see  what 
could  be  done. 

The  day  was  wretched.  The  snow  had  turned 
to  rain.  Mrs.  Boyer,  shopping,  dragged  wet 
skirts  and  damp  feet  from  store  to  store.  She 
found  nothing  that  she  cared  for  after  all.  The 
garments  that  looked  chic  in  the  windows  or  on 
manikins  in  the  shops,  were  absurd  on  her.  Her 
insistent  bosom  bulged,  straight  lines  became 
curves  or  tortuous  zigzags,  plackets  gaped, 
collars  choked  her  or  shocked  her  by  their  ab 
sence.  In  the  mirror  of  Marie  Jedlicka,  clad  in 
familiar  garments  that  had  accommodated  them 
selves  to  the  idiosyncrasies  of  her  figure,  Mrs. 
Boyer  was  a  plump,  rather  comely  matron. 
Here  before  the  plate  glass  of  the  modiste,  under 
the  glare  of  a  hundred  lights,  side  by  side  with  a 

210 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

slim  Austrian  salesgirl  who  looked  like  a  willow 
wand,  Mrs.  Boyer  was  grotesque,  ridiculous, 
monstrous.  She  shuddered.  She  almost  wept. 

It  was  bad  preparation  for  a  visit  to  the 
Siebensternstrasse.  Mrs.  Boyer,  finding  her 
vanity  gone,  convinced  that  she  was  an  absur 
dity  physically,  fell  back  for  comfort  on  her 
soul.  She  had  been  a  good  wife  and  mother; 
she  was  chaste,  righteous.  God  had  been  cruel 
to  her  in  the  flesh,  but  He  had  given  her  the 
spirit. 

"Madame  wishes  not  the  gown?  It  is  beauti 
ful —  see  the  embroidery!  And  the  neck  may 
be  filled  with  chiffon." 

"Young  woman,"  she  said  grimly,  "I  see 
the  embroidery ;  and  the  neck  may  be  filled  with 
chiffon,  but  not  for  me !  And  when  you  have  had 
five  children,  you  will  not  buy  clothes  like 
that  either." 

All  the  kindliness  was  gone  from  the  visit 
to  the  Siebensternstrasse;  only  the  determina 
tion  remained.  Wounded  to  the  heart  of  her 
self-esteem,  her  pride  in  tatters,  she  took  her 
way  to  the  old  lodge  and  climbed  the  stairs. 

She  found  a  condition  of  mild  excitement. 
Jimmy  had  slept  long  after  his  bath.  Harmony 
practiced,  cut  up  a  chicken  for  broth,  aired 
blankets  for  the  chair  into  which  Peter  on  his 
return  was  to  lift  the  boy.  ' 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

She  was  called  to  inspect  the  mouse-cage, 
which,  according  to  Jimmy,  had  strawberries 
in  it. 

"Far  back,"  he  explained.  "There  in  the 
cotton,  Harry." 

But  it  was  not  strawberries.  Harmony  opened 
the  cage  and  very  tenderly  took  out  the  cotton 
nest.  Eight  tiny  pink  baby  mice,  clean  washed 
by  the  mother,  lay  curled  in  a  heap. 

It  was  a  stupendous  moment.  The  joy  of  vi 
carious  parentage  was  Jimmy's.  He  named 
them  all  immediately  and  demanded  food  for 
them.  On  Harmony's  delicate  explanation  that 
this  was  unnecessary,  life  took  on  a  new  mean 
ing  for  Jimmy.  He  watched  the  mother  lest 
she  slight  one.  His  responsibility  weighed  on 
him.  Also  his  inquiring  mind  was  very  busy. 

"But  how  did  they  get  there?"  he  demanded. 

"God  sent  them,  just  as  he  sends  babies  of  all 
sorts." 

"Did  he  send  me?"  ' 

"Of  course." 

"That's  a  good  one  on  you,  Harry.  My 
father  found  me  in  a  hollow  tree." 

"But  don't  you  think  God  had  something 
to  do  with  it?" 

Jimmy  pondered  this. 

"I  suppose,"  he  reflected,  "God  sent  Daddy 
to  find  me  so  that  I  would  be  his  little  boy. 

212 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

You  never  happened  to  see  any  babies  when 
you  were  out  walking,  did  you,  Harry?  " 

"Not  in  stumps  —  but  I  probably  wasn't 
looking." 

Jimmy  eyed  her  with  sympathy. 

:'You  may  some  day.  Would  you  like  to 
have  one?" 

"Very  much,"  said  Harmony,  and  flushed 
delightfully. 

Jimmy  was  disposed  to  press  the  matter,  to 
urge  immediate  maternity  on  her. 

:<  You  could  lay  it  here  on  the  bed,"  he  offered, 
"and  I  'd  watch  it.  When  they  yell  you  let  'em 
suck  your  finger.  I  knew  a  woman  once  that 
had  a  baby  and  she  did  that.  And  it  could  watch 
Isabella."  Isabella  was  the  mother  mouse. 
"And  when  I'm  better  I  could  take  it  walking." 

"That,"  said  Harmony  gravely,  "is  mighty 
fine  of  you,  Jimmy  boy.  I  -  -  I  '11  think  about 
it."  She  never  denied  Jimmy  anything,  so 
now  she  temporized. 

"I'll  ask  Peter." 

Harmony  had  a  half -hysterical  moment;  then: 

"WTould  n't  it  be  better,"  she  asked,  "to  keep 
anything  of  that  sort  a  secret?  And  to  surprise 
Peter?" 

The  boy  loved  a  secret.  He  played  with  it  in 
lieu  of  other  occupation.  His  uncertain  future 
was  sown  thick  with  secrets  that  would  never 

213 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

flower  into  reality.  Thus  Peter  had  shame 
lessly  promised  him  a  visit  to  the  circus  when 
he  was  able  to  go,  Harmony  not  to  be  told 
until  the  tickets  were  bought.  Anna  had  simi 
larly  promised  to  send  him  from  America 
a  pitcher's  glove  and  a  baseball  bat.  To 
this  list  of  futurities  he  now  added  Harmony's 
baby.  . 

Harmony  brought  in  her  violin  and  played 
softly  to  him,  not  to  disturb  the  sleeping  mice. 
She  sang,  too,  a  verse  that  the  Big  Soprano 
had  been  fond  of  and  that  Jimmy  loved.  Not 
much  of  a  voice  was  Harmony's,  but  sweet  and 
low  and  very  true,  as  became  her  violinist's 
ear. 

"Ah,  well!  For  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes," 

she  sang,  her  clear  eyes  luminous. 

"  And  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away! " 

Mrs.  Boyer  mounted  the  stairs.  She  was  in  a 
very  bad  humor.  She  had  snagged  her  skirt  on  a 
nail  in  the  old  gate,  and  although  that  very 
morning  she  had  detested  the  suit,  her  round  of 
shopping  had  again  endeared  it  to  her.  She 
told  the  Portier  in  English  what  she  thought  of 
him,  and  climbed  ponderously,  pausing  at  each 
landing  to  examine  the  damage. 

214 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony,  having  sung  Jimmy  to  sleep,  was 
in  the  throes  of  an  experiment.  She  was  trying 
to  smoke. 

A  very  human  young  person  was  Harmony, 
apt  to  be  exceedingly  wretched  if  her  hat  were  of 
last  year's  fashion,  anxious  to  be  inconspicuous 
by  doing  what  every  one  else  was  doing,  con 
ventional  as  are  the  very  young,  fearful  of 
being  an  exception. 

And  nearly  every  one  was  smoking.  Many  of 
the  young  women  whom  she  met  at  the  master's 
house  had  yellowed  fingers  and  smoked  in  the 
anteroom;  the  Big  Soprano  had  smoked;  Anna 
and  Scatchy  had  smoked;  in  the  coffee-houses 
milliners'  apprentices  produced  little  silver 
mouth-pieces  to  prevent  soiling  their  pretty 
lips  and  smoked  endlessly.  Even  Peter  had  ad 
mitted  that  it  was  not  a  vice,  but  only  a  com 
fortable  bad  habit.  And  Anna  had  left  a  hand 
ful  of  cigarettes. 

Harmony  was  not  smoking;  she  was  experi 
menting.  Peter  and  Anna  had  smoked  together 
and  it  had  looked  comradely.  Perhaps,  with 
out  reasoning  it  out,  Harmony  was  ex 
perimenting  toward  the  end  of  establishing 
her  relations  with  Peter  still  further  on 
friendly  and  comradely  grounds.  Two  men 
might  smoke  together;  a  man  and  a  woman 
might  smoke  together  as  friends.  According 

215 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  Harmony's  ideas,  a  girl  paring  potatoes 
might  inspire  sentiment,  but  smoking  a  cig 
arette  —  never ! 

She  did  not  like  it.  She  thought,  standing 
before  her  little  mirror,  that  she  looked  fast,  after 
all.  She  tried  pursing  her  lips  together,  as  she 
had  seen  Anna  do,  and  blowing  out  the  smoke 
in  a  thin  line.  She  smoked  very  hard,  so  that 
she  stood  in  the  center  of  a  gray  nimbus.  She 
hated  it,  but  she  persisted.  Perhaps  it  grew 
on  one;  perhaps,  also,  if  she  walked  about  it 
would  choke  her  less.  She  practiced  holding  the 
thing  between  her  first  and  second  fingers,  and 
found  that  easier  than  smoking.  Then  she  went 
to  the  salon  where  there  was  more  air,  and  tried 
exhaling  through  her  nose.  It  made  her  sneeze. 

On  the  sneeze  came  Mrs.  Boyer's  ring.  Har 
mony  thought  very  fast.  It  might  be  the  bread 
or  the  milk,  but  again  —  She  flung  the  cigarette 
into  the  stove,  shut  the  door,  and  answered  the 
bell. 

Mrs.  Boyer's  greeting  was  colder  than  she 
had  intended.  It  put  Harmony  on  the  defensive 
at  once,  made  her  uncomfortable.  Like  all  the 
innocent  falsely  accused  she  looked  guiltier 
than  the  guiltiest.  Under  Mrs.  Boyer's  searching 
eyes  the  enormity  of  her  situation  overwhelmed 
her.  And  over  all,  through  salon  and  passage, 
hung  the  damning  odor  of  the  cigarette.  Har- 

216 


The  Street  of  Seven  St^rs 

mony,  leading  the  way  in,  was  a  sheep  before 
her  shearer. 

"I'm  calling  on  all  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Boyer, 
sniffing.  "I  meant  to  bring  Dr.  Boyer's  cards 
for  every  one,  including  Dr.  Byrne." 

"I  'm  sorry.   Dr.  Byrne  is  out." 

"And  Dr.  Gates?" 

"She  —  she  is  away." 

Mrs.  Boyer  raised  her  eyebrows  and  ostenta 
tiously  changed  the  subject,  requesting  a  needle 
and  thread  to  draw  the  rent  together.  It  had 
been  in  Harmony's  mind  to  explain  the  situation, 
to  show  Jimmy  to  Mrs.  Boyer,  to  throw  her 
self  on  the  older  woman's  sympathy,  to  ask 
advice.  But  the  visitor's  attitude  made  this 
difficult.  To  add  to  her  discomfort,  through 
the  grating  in  the  stove  door  was  coming  a 
thin  thread  of  smoke. 

It  was,  after  all,  Mrs.  Boyer  who  broached 
the  subject  again.  She  had  had  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  Harmony,  sitting  on  a  stool,  had  mended 
the  rent  so  that  it  could  hardly  be  seen.  Mrs. 
Boyer,  softened  by  the  tea  and  by  the  proximity 
of  Harmony's  lovely  head  bent  over  her  task, 
grew  slightly  more  expansive. 

"I  ought  to  tell  you  something,  Miss  Wells," 
she  said.  "You  remember  my  other  visit?" 

"Perfectly."   Harmony  bent  still  lower. 
; ." I  did  you  an  injustice  at  that  time.    I  Ve 

217 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

been  sorry  ever  since.  I  thought  that  there 
was  no  Dr.  Gates.  I  'm  sorry,  but  I  'm  not 
going  to  deny  it.  People  do  things  in  this 
wicked  city  that  they  would  n't  do  at  home. 
I  confess  I  misjudged  Peter  Byrne.  You 
can  give  him  my  apologies,  since  he  won't  see 
me." 

"But  he   isn't  here  or   of  course  he'd  see 

you." 

"Then,"  demanded  Mrs.  Boyer  grimly,  "if 
Peter  Byrne  is  not  here,  who  has  been  smoking 
cigarettes  in  this  room?  There  is  one  still  burn 
ing  in  that  stove!" 

Harmony's  hand  was  forced.  She  was  white 
as  she  cut  the  brown-silk  thread  and  rose  to  her 
feet. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  I'd  better  go  back 
a  few  weeks,  Mrs.  Boyer,  and  tell  you  a  story, 
if  you  have  time  to  listen." 

"  If  it  is  disagreeable  - 

"Not  at  all.  It  is  about  Peter  Byrne  and  my 
self,  and  —  some  others.  It  is  really  about 
Peter.  Mrs.  Boyer,  will  you  come  very  quietly 
across  the  hall?" 

Mrs.  Boyer,  expecting  Heaven  knows  what, 
rose  with  celerity.  Harmony  led  the  way  to 
Jimmy's  door  and  opened  it.  He  was  still 
asleep,  a  wasted  small  figure  on  the  narrow 
bed.  Beside  him  the  mice  frolicked  in  their 

218 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

cage,  the  sentry  kept  guard  over  Peter's  shame 
less  letters  from  the  Tyrol,  the  strawberry 
babies  wriggled  in  their  cotton. 

"We  are  not  going  to  have  him  very  long," 
said  Harmony  softly.  "Peter  is  making  him 
happy  for  a  little  while." 

Back  in  the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa  she  told 
the  whole  story.  Mrs.  Boyer  found  it  very  affect 
ing.  Harmony  sat  beside  her  on  a  stool  and  she 
kept  her  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder.  When 
the  narrative  reached  Anna's  going  away,  how 
ever,  she  took  it  away.  From  that  point  on  she 
sat  uncompromisingly  rigid  and  listened. 

"Then  you  mean  to  say,"  she  exploded  when 
Harmony  had  finished,  "that  you  intend  to  stay 
on  here,  just  the  two  of  you?  " 

"And   Jimmy." 

"Bah!  WThat  has  the  child  to  do  with  it?" 

"We  will  find  some  one  to  take  Anna's  place." 

"I  doubt  it.   And  until  you  do?  " 

"There  is  nothing  wicked  in  what  we  are 
doing.  Don't  you  see,  Mrs.  Boyer,  I  can't 
leave  the  boy." 

"Since  Peter  is  so  altruistic,  let  him  hire  a 
nurse." 

Bad  as  things  were,  Harmony  smiled. 

"A  nurse!"  she  said.  "Why,  do  you  realize 
that  he  is  keeping  three  people  now  on  what  is 
starvation  for  one?  " 

219 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Then  he  's  a  fool!"  Mrs.  Boyer  rose  in  maj 
esty.  "I'm  not  going  to  leave  you  here." 

"I'm  sorry.   You  must  see — ' 

"I  see  nothing  but  a  girl  deliberately  putting 
herself  in  a  compromising  position  and  worse." 

"Mrs.  Boyer!" 

"Get  your  things  on.  I  guess  Dr.  Boyer  and 
I  can  look  after  you  until  we  can  send  you  home." 

"I  am  not  going  home  —  yet,"  said  poor 
Harmony,  biting  her  lip  to  steady  it. 

Back  and  forth  waged  the  battle,  Mrs.  Boyer 
assailing,  Harmony  offering  little  defense  but 
standing  firm  on  her  refusal  to  go  as  long  as 
Peter  would  let  her  remain. 

"It  means  so  much  to  me,"  she  ventured, 
goaded.  "And  I  earn  my  lodging  and  board. 
I  work  hard  and  —  I  make  him  comfortable. 
It  costs  him  very  little  and  I  give  him  something 
in  exchange.  All  men  are  not  alike.  If  the  sort 
you  have  known  are  —  are  different  - 

This  was  unfortunate.  Mrs.  Boyer  stiffened. 
She  ceased  offensive  tactics,  and  retired  grimly 
into  the  dignity  of  her  high  calling  of  virtuous 
wife  and  mother.  She  washed  her  hands  of 
Harmony  and  Peter.  She  tied  on  her  veil  wTith 
shaking  hands,  and  prepared  to  leave  Harmony 
to  her  fate. 

"Give  me  your  mother's  address,"  she  de 
manded. 

220 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Certainly  not." 

"You  absolutely  refuse  to  save  yourself?" 

"From  what?  From  Peter?  There  are  many 
worse  people  than  Peter  to  save  myself  from, 
Mrs.  Boyer  —  uncharitable  people,  and  —  and 
cruel  people." 

Mrs.  Boyer  shrugged  her  plump  shoulders. 

"Meaning  me!"  she  retorted.  "My  dear 
child,  people  are  always  cruel  who  try  to  save  us 
from  ourselves." 

Unluckily  for  Harmony,  one  of  Anna's  spe 
cious  arguments  must  pop  into  her  head  at  that 
instant  and  demand  expression. 

"People  are  living  their  own  lives  these  days, 
Mrs.  Boyer;  old  standards  have  gone.  It  is 
what  one's  conscience  condemns  that  is  wrong, 
isn't  it?  Not  merely  breaking  laws  that  were 
made  to  fit  the  average,  not  the  exception." 

Anna !    Anna ! 

Mrs.  Boyer  flung  up  her  hands. 

''You  are  impossible!"  she  snapped.  "After 
all,  I  believe  it  is  Peter  who  needs  protection! 
I  shall  speak  to  him." 

She  started  down  the  staircase,  but  turned 
for  a  parting  volley. 

"And  just  a  word  of  advice:  Perhaps  the  old 
standards  have  gone.  But  if  you  really  expect  to 
find  a  respectable  woman  to  chaperon  you, 
keep  your  views  to  yourself." 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony,  a  bruised  and  wounded  thing,  crept 
into  Jimmy's  room  and  sank  on  her  knees  beside 
the  bed.  One  small  hand  lay  on  the  coverlet; 
she  dared  not  touch  it  for  fear  of  waking  him 
—  but  she  laid  her  cheek  close  to  it  for  comfort. 
When  Peter  came  in,  much  later,  he  found  the 
boy  wide  awake  and  Harmony  asleep,  a  crum 
pled  heap  beside  the  bed. 

" I  think  she's  been  crying,"  Jimmy  whispered. 
"She's  been  sobbing  in  her  sleep.  And  strike 
a  match,  Peter;  there  may  be  more  mice." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MRS.  BOYER,  bursting  with  indignation, 
went  to  the  Doctors'  Club.  It  was  typi 
cal  of  the  way  things  were  going  with  Peter 
that  Dr.  Boyer  was  not  there,  and  that  the  only 
woman  in  the  club  rooms  should  be  Dr.  Jennings. 
Young  McLean  was  in  the  reading  room,  eating 
his  heart  out  with  jealousy  of  Peter,  vacillating 
between  the  desire  to  see  Harmony  that  night 
and  fear  lest  Peter  forbid  him  the  house  per 
manently  if  he  made  the  attempt.  He  had 
found  a  picture  of  the  Fraulein  Engel,  from  the 
opera,  in  a  magazine,  and  was  sitting  with  it 
open  before  him.  Very  deeply  and  really  in 
love  was  McLean  that  afternoon,  and  the 
Fraulein  Engel  and  Harmony  were  not  unlike. 
The  double  doors  between  the  reading  room 
and  the  reception  room  adjoining  were  open. 
McLean,  lost  in  a  rosy  future  in  which  he  and 
Harmony  sat  together  for  indefinite  periods, 
with  no  Peter  to  scowl  over  his  books  at  them, 
a  future  in  which  life  was  one  long  piano-violin 
duo,  with  the  candles  in  the  chandelier  going 
out  one  by  one,  leaving  them  at  last  alone  in 
scented  darkness  together  —  McLean  heard 

223 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

nothing  until  the  mention  of  the  Siebenstern- 
strasse  roused  him. 

After  that  he  listened.  He  heard  that  Dr. 
Jennings  was  contemplating  taking  Anna's  place 
at  the  lodge,  and  he  comprehended  after  a  mo 
ment  that  Anna  was  already  gone.  Even  then 
the  significance  of  the  situation  was  a  little  time 
in  dawning  on  him.  When  it  did,  however,  he 
rose  with  a  stifled  oath. 

Mrs.  Boyer  was  speaking. 

"It  is  exactly  as  I  tell  you,"  she  was  saying. 
"If  Peter  Byrne  is  trying  to  protect  her  reputa 
tion  he  is  late  doing  it.  Personally  I  have  been 
there  twice.  I  never  saw  Anna  Gates.  And  she 
is  registered  here  at  the  club  as  living  in  the  Pen 
sion  Schwarz.  Whatever  the  facts  may  be,  one 
thing  remains,  she  is  not  there  now." 

McLean  waited  to  hear  no  more.  He  was 
beside  himself  with  rage.  He  found  a  "comfort 
able"  at  the  curb.  The  driver  was  asleep  inside 
the  carriage.  McLean  dragged  him  out  by  the 
shoulder  and  shouted  an  address  to  him.  The 
cab  bumped  along  over  the  rough  streets  to  an 
accompaniment  of  protests  from  its  frantic 
passenger. 

The  boy  was  white-lipped  with  wrath  and 
fear.  Peter's  silence  that  afternoon  as  to  the 
state  of  affairs  loomed  large  and  significant. 
He  had  thought  once  or  twice  that  Peter  was 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

in  love  with  Harmony;  he  knew  it  now  in  the 
clearer  vision  of  the  moment.  He  recalled  things 
that  maddened  him :  the  dozen  intimacies  of  the 
little  menage,  the  caress  in  Peter's  voice  when 
he  spoke  to  the  girl,  Peter's  steady  eyes  in  the 
semi-gloom  of  the  salon  while  Harmony  played. 

At  a  corner  they  must  pause  for  the  inevitable 
regiment.  McLean  cursed,  bending  out  to  see 
how  long  the  delay  would  be.  Peter  had  been 
gone  for  half  an  hour,  perhaps,  but  Peter  would 
walk.  If  he  could  only  see  the  girl  first,  talk  to 
her,  tell  her  what  she  would  be  doing  by  re 
maining  — 

He  was  there  at  last,  flinging  across  the  court 
yard  like  a  madman.  Peter  was  already  there; 
his  footprints  were  fresh  in  the  slush  of  the 
path.  The  house  door  was  closed  but  not  locked. 
McLean  ran  up  the  stairs.  It  was  barely  twi 
light  outside,  but  the  staircase  well  was  dark. 
At  the  upper  landing  he  was  compelled  to  fumble 
for  the  bell. 

Peter  admitted  him.  The  corridor  was  un- 
lighted,  but  from  the  salon  came  a  glow  of  lamp 
light.  McLean,  out  of  breath  and  furious,  faced 
Peter. 

"I  want  to  see  Harmony,"  he  said  without 
preface. 

Peter  eyed  him.  He  knew  what  had  happened, 
had  expected  it  when  the  bell  rang,  had  antici- 

225 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

pated  it  when  Harmony  told  him  of  Mrs.  Boyer's 
visit.  In  the  second  between  the  peal  of  the 
bell  and  his  opening  the  door  he  had  decided 
what  to  do. 

"Come  in." 

McLean  stepped  inside.  He  was  smaller 
than  Peter,  not  so  much  shorter  as  slenderer. 
Even  Peter  winced  before  the  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"In  the  kitchen,  I  think.  Come  into  the 
salon." 

McLean  flung  off  his  coat.  Peter  closed  the 
door  behind  him  and  stood  just  inside.  He  had 
his  pipe  as  usual.  "I  came  to  see  her,  not  you, 
Byrne." 

"  So  I  gather.  I  '11  let  you  see  her,  of  course, 
but  don't  you  want  to  see  me  first?" 

"I  want  to  take  her  away  from  here." 

"Why?  Are  you  better  able  to  care  for  her 
than  I  am?" 

McLean  stood  rigid.  He  had  thrust  his 
clenched  hands  into  his  pockets. 

"You're  a  scoundrel,  Byrne,"  he  said  steadily. 
"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  this  afternoon?" 

"Because  I  knew  if  I  did  you'd  do  just  what 
you  are  doing." 

"Are  you  going  to  keep  her  here?" 

Peter  changed  color  at  the  thrust,  but  he  kept 
himself  in  hand. 

226 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I'm  not  keeping  her  here,"  he  said  patiently. 
"I'm  doing  the  best  I  can  under  the  circum 
stances." 

"Then  your  best  is  pretty  bad." 

"Perhaps.  If  you  would  try  to  remember  the 
circumstances,  McLean, —  that  the  girl  has  no 

place  else  to  go,  practically  no  money,  and  that 
j " 

"I  remember  one  circumstance,  that  you  are 
living  here  alone  with  her  and  that  you're 
crazy  in  love  with  her." 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  you.  As  long 
as  I  treat  her  — " 

"Bah!" 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  let  me  finish 
what  I  am  trying  to  say?  She's  safe  with  me. 
When  I  say  that  I  mean  it.  She  will  not  go  away 
from  here  with  you  or  with  any  one  else  if  I  can 
prevent  it.  And  if  you  care  enough  about  her  to 
try  to  keep  her  happy  you'll  not  let  her  know 
you  have  been  here.  I  've  got  a  woman  coming  to 
take  Anna's  place.  That  ought  to  satisfy  you." 

"Dr.  Jennings?" 

"Yes." 

"She'll  not  come.  Mrs.  Boyer  has  been  talk 
ing  to  her.  Inside  of  an  hour  the  whole  club  will 
have  it  —  every  American  in  Vienna  will  know 
about  it  in  a  day  or  so.  I  tell  you,  Byrne,  you're 
doing  an  awful  thing." 

227 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Peter  drew  a  long  breath.  He  had  had  his 
bad  half -hour  before  McLean  came;  had  had  to 
stand  by,  wordless,  and  see  Harmony  trying  to 
smile,  see  her  dragging  about,  languid  and  white, 
see  her  tragic  attempts  to  greet  him  on  the  old 
familiar  footing.  Through  it  all  he  had  been  sus 
tained  by  the  thought  that  a  day  or  two  days 
would  see  the  old  footing  reestablished,  another 
woman  in  the  house,  life  again  worth  the  living 
and  Harmony  smiling  up  frankly  into  his  eyes. 
Now  this  hope  had  departed. 

:'You  can't  keep  me  from  seeing  her,  you 
know,"   McLean  persisted.    "  I  've  got  to  put 
this  thing  to  her.     She's  got  to  choose." 
"What   alternative  have  you  to   suggest?" 
"I'd  marry  her  if  she'd  have  me." 
After  all  Peter  had  expected  that.    And,  if 
she  cared  for  the  boy  would  n't  that  be  best  for 
her?    What  had  he  to  offer  against  that?    He 
could  n't  marry.  He  could  only  offer  her  shelter, 
against  everything  else.    Even  then  he  did  not 
dislike  McLean.    He  was  a  man,  every  slender 
inch  of  him,  this  boy  musician.     Peter's  heart 
sank,  but  he  put  down  his  pipe  and  turned  to 
the  door. 

"I  '11  call  her,"  he  said.  "But,  since  this  con 
cerns  me  very  vitally,  I  should  like  to  be  here 
while  you  put  the  thing  to  her.  After  that  if 
you  like  - 

228 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

He  called  Harmony.  She  had  given  Jimmy 
his  supper  and  was  carrying  out  a  tray  that 
seemed  hardly  touched.  > 

"He  won't  eat  to-night,"  she  said  miserably. 
"Peter,  if  he  steps  eating,  what  can  we  do? 
He  is  so  weak!" 

Peter,  took  the  tray  from  her  gently. 

"Harry  dear,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  come 
into  the  salon.  Some  one  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

"To  me?" 

"Yes.  Harry,  do  you  remember  that  evening 
in  the  kitchen  when  —  Do  you  recall  what  I 
promised?" 

"Yes,  Peter." 

:<You  are  sure  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  all  right,  then.  McLean  wants  to 
see  you." 

She  hesitated,  looking  up  at  him. 

"McLean?  You  look  so  grave,  Peter.  What 
is  it?" 

"He  will  tell  you.   Nothing  alarming." 

Peter  gave  McLean  a  minute  alone  after  all, 
while  he  carried  the  tray  to  the  kitchen.  He 
had  no  desire  to  play  watchdog  over  the  girl, 
he  told  himself  savagely;  only  to  keep  himself 
straight  with  her  and  to  save  her  from  McLean's 
impetuosity.  He  even  waited  in  the  kitchen  to 
fill  and  light  his  pipe. 

229 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

McLean  had  worked  himself  into  a  very  fair 
passion.  He  was  intense,  almost  theatrical, 
as  he  stood  with  folded  arms  waiting  for  Har 
mony.  So  entirely  did  the  girl  fill  his  existence 
that  he  forgot,  or  did  not  care  to  remember, 
how  short  a  time  he  had  known  her.  As  Har 
mony  she  dominated  his  life  and  his  thoughts; 
as  Harmony  he  addressed  her  when,  rather 
startled,  she  entered  the  salon  and  stood  just 
inside  the  closed  door. 

"Peter  said  you  wanted  to  speak  to  me." 

McLean  groaned.  "Peter!"  he  said.  "It  is 
always  Peter.  Look  here,  Harmony,  you  cannot 
stay  here." 

"It  is  only  for  a  few  hours.  To-morrow  some 
one  is  coming.  And,  anyhow,  Peter  is  going  to 
Semmering.  We  know  it  is  unusual,  but  what 
can  we  do?" 

"Unusual!  It's  —  it's  damnable.  It's  the 
appearance  of  the  thing,  don't  you  see  that?" 

"I  think  it  is  rather  silly  to  talk  of  appearance 
when  there  is  no  one  to  care.  And  how  can  I 
leave?  Jimmy  needs  me  all  the  time  — " 

" That's  another  idiocy  of  Peter's.  What  does 
he  mean  by  putting  you  in  this  position?" 

"I  am  one  of  Peter's  idiocies." 

Peter  entered  on  that.  He  took  in  the  situa 
tion  with  a  glance,  and  Harmony  turned  to 
him;  but  if  she  had  expected  Peter  to  support 

230 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

her,  she  was  disappointed.  Whatever  decision 
she  was  to  make  must  be  her  own,  in  Peter's 
troubled  mind.  He  crossed  the  room  and  stood 
at  one  of  the  windows,  looking  out,  a  passive 
participant  in  the  scene. 

The  day  had  been  a  trying  one  for  Harmony. 
What  she  chose  to  consider  Peter's  defection 
was  a  fresh  stab.  She  glanced  from  McLean, 
flushed  and  excited,  to  Peter's  impassive  back. 
Then  she  sat  down,  rather  limp,  and  threw  out 
her  hands  helplessly. 

"WThat  am  I  to  do?"  she  demanded.  "Every 
one  comes  with  cruel  things  to  say,  but  no  one 
tells  me  what  to  do." 

Peter  turned  away  from  the  window. 

:'You  can  leave  here,"  ventured  McLean. 
"That's  the  first  thing.  After  that  — " 

"Yes,  and  after  that,  wThat?" 

McLean  glanced  at  Peter.  Then  he  took  a 
step  toward  the  girl. 

;'You  could  marry  me,  Harmony,"  he  said 
unsteadily.  "I  hadn't  expected  to  tell  you  so 
soon,  or  before  a  third  person."  He  faltered 
before  Harmony's  eyes,  full  of  bewilderment. 
"I'd  be  very  happy  if  you  —  if  you  could  see 
it  that  way.  I  care  a  great  deal,  you  see." 

It  seemed  hours  to  Peter  before  she  made  any 
reply,  and  that  her  voice  came  from  miles  away. 

"Is  it  really  as  bad  as  that?"  she  asked. 
231 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Have  I  made  such  a  mess  of  things  that  some 
one,  either  you  or  Peter,  must  marry  me  to 
straighten  things  out?  I  don't  want  to  marry 
any  one.  Do  I  have  to?" 

"Certainly  you  don't  have  to,"  said  Peter. 
There  was  relief  in  his  voice,  relief  and  also 
something  of  exultation.  "McLean,  you  mean 
well,  but  marriage  is  n't  the  solution.  We  were 
getting  along  all  right  until  our  friends  stepped 
in.  Let  Mrs.  Boyer  howl  all  over  the  colony; 
there  will  be  one  sensible  woman  somewhere 
to  come  and  be  comfortable  here  with  us.  In 
the  interval  we  '11  manage,  unless  Harmony  is 
afraid.  In  that  case — " 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances,  McLean 
helpless,  Peter  triumphant. 

"I  do  not  care  what  Mrs.  Boyer  says,  at 
least  not  much.  And  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything 
else  at  all." 

McLean  picked  up  his  overcoat. 

"At  least,"  he  appealed  to  Peter,  "you'll 
come  over  to  my  place?" 

"No!"  said  Peter. 

McLean  made  a  final  appeal  to  Harmony. 

"If  this  gets  out,"  he  said,  "you  are  going 
to  regret  it  all  your  life." 

"I  shall  have  nothing  to  regret,"  she  retorted 
proudly. 

232 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Had  Peter  not  been  there  McLean  would  have 
made  a  better  case,  would  have  pleaded  with 
her,  would  have  made  less  of  a  situation  that 
roused  her  resentment  and  more  of  his  love  for 
her.  He  was  very  [hard  hit,  very  young.  He 
was  almost  hysterical  with  rage  and  helpless 
ness;  he  wanted  to  slap  her,  to  take  her  in  his 
arms.  He  writhed  under  the  restraint  of  Peter's 
steady  eyes. 

He  got  to  the  door  and  turned,  furious. 

"Then  it's  up  to  you,"  he  flung  at  Peter. 
:*  You 're  old  enough  to  know  better;  she  is  n't. 
And  don't  look  so  damned  superior.  You  're 
human,  like  the  rest  of  us.  And  if  any  harm 
comes  to  her  - 

Here  unexpectedly  Peter  held  out  his  hand, 
and  after  a  sheepish  moment  McLean  took  it. 

"Good-night,  old  man,"  said  Peter.  "And 
—  don't  be  an  ass." 

As  was  Peter's  way,  the  words  meant  little, 
the  tone  much.  McLean  knew  what  in  his  heart 
he  had  known  all  along  —  that  the  girl  was 
safe  enough;  that  all  that  was  to  fear  was  the 
gossip  of  scandal-lovers.  He  took  Peter's  hand, 
and  then  going  to  Harmony  stood  before  her 
very  erect. 

"I  suppose*  I've  said  too  much;  I  always  do," 
he  said  contritely.  "But  you  know  the  reason. 
Don't  forget  the  reason,  will  you?" 

233 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  am  only  sorry." 

He  bent  over  and  kissed  her  hand  lingeringly. 
It  was  a  tragic  moment  for  him,  poor  lad!  He 
turned  and  went  blindly  out  the  door  and  down 
the  dark  stone  staircase.  It  was  rather  anti 
climax,  after  all  that,  to  have  Peter  discover  he 
had  gone  without  his  hat  and  toss  it  down  to 
him  a  flight  below. 

All  the  frankness  had  gone  out  of  the  relation 
ship  between  Harmony  and  Peter.  They  made 
painful  efforts  at  ease,  talked  during  the  meal 
of  careful  abstractions,  such  as  Jimmy,  and 
Peter's  proposed  trip  to  Semmering,  avoided 
each  other's  eyes,  ate  little  or  nothing.  Once 
when  Harmony  passed  Peter  his  coffee-cup  their 
fingers  touched,  and  between  them  they  dropped 
the  cup.  Harmony  was  flushed  and  pallid  by 
turns,  Peter  wTetched  and  silent. 

Out  of  the  darkness  came  one  ray  of  light. 
Stewart  had  wired  from  Semmering,  urging 
Peter  to  come.  He  would  be  away  for  two  days. 
In  two  days  much  might  happen;  Dr.  Jennings 
might  come  or  some  one  else.  In  two  days 
some  of  the  restraint  would  have  worn  off. 
Things  would  never  be  the  same,  but  they 
would  be  forty-eight  hours  better. 

Peter  spent  the  early  part  of  the  evening 
with  Jimmy,  reading  aloud  to  him.  After  the 
child  had  dropped  to  sleep  he  packed  a  valise 

234 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

for  the  next  day's  journey  and  counted  out  into 
an  envelope  half  of  the  money  he  had  with 
him.  This  he  labeled  "Household  Expenses" 
and  set  it  up  on  his  table,  leaning  against  his 
collar-box.  There  was  no  sign  of  Harmony  about. 
The  salon  was  dark  except  for  the  study  lamp 
turned  down. 

Peter  was  restless.  He  put  on  his  shabby 
dressing-gown  and  worn  slippers  and  wandered 
about.  The  Portier  had  brought  coal  to  the 
landing;  Peter  carried  it  in.  He  inspected  the 
medicine  bottles  on  Jimmy's  stand  and  wrote 
full  directions  for  every  emergency  he  could 
imagine.  Then,  finding  it  still  only  nine  o'clock, 
he  turned  up  the  lamp  in  the  salon  and  wrote 
an  exciting  letter  from  Jimmy's  father,  in  which 
a  lost  lamb,  wandering  on  the  mountain-side, 
had  been  picked  up  by  an  avalanche  and  car 
ried  down  into  the  fold  and  the  arms  of  the 
shepherd.  And  because  he  stood  so  in  loco 
parentis,  and  because  it  seemed  so  inevitable 
that  before  long  Jimmy  would  be  in  the  arms  of 
the  Shepherd,  and,  of  course,  because  it  had 
been  a  trying  day  all  through,  Peter's  lips  were 
none  too  steady  as  he  folded  up  the  letter. 

The  fire  was  dead  in  the  stove;  Peter  put  out 
the  salon  lamp  and  closed  the  shutters.  In  the 
warm  darkness  he  put  out  his  hand  to  feel  his 
way  through  the  room.  It  touched  a  little 

235 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

sweater  coat  of  Harmony's,  hanging  over  the 
back  of  a  chair.  Peter  picked  it  up  in  a  very 
passion  of  tenderness  and  held  it  to  him. 

"Little  girl!"  he  choked.  "My  little  girl! 
God  help  me!" 

He  was  rather  ashamed,  considerably  startled. 
It  alarmed  him  to  find  that  the  mere  unexpected 
touch  of  a  familiar  garment  could  rouse  such  a 
storm  in  him.  It  made  him  pause.  He  put  down 
the  coat  and  pulled  himself  up  sharply.  McLean 
was  right;  he  was  only  human  stuff,  very  poor 
human  stuff.  He  put  the  little  coat  down  hastily, 
only  to  lift  it  again  gently  to  his  lips. 

"Good-night,  dear,"  he  whispered.  "Good 
night,  Harmony." 

Frau  Schwarz  had  had  two  visitors  between 
the  hours  of  coffee  and  supper  that  day.  The 
reason  of  their  call  proved  to  be  neither  rooms 
nor  pension.  They  came  to  make  inquiries. 

The  Frau  Schwarz  made  this  out  at  last,  and 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  in  the  room  that 
had  once  been  Peter's  and  that  still  lacked  an 
occupant. 

Mrs.  Boyer  had  no  German;  Dr.  Jennings 
very  little  and  that  chiefly  medical.  There  is, 
however,  a  sort  of  code  that  answers  instead  of 
language  frequently,  when  two  or  three  women 
of  later  middle  life  are  gathered  together,  a 

236 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

code  born  of  mutual  understanding,  mutual 
disillusion,  mutual  distrust,  a  language  of  out- 
«pread  hands,  raised  eyebrows,  portentous  shak 
ings  of  the  head.  Frau  Schwarz,  on  the  edge  of 
Peter's  tub-shaped  bed,  needed  no  English 
to  convey  the  fact  that  Peter  was  a  bad  lot. 
Not  that  she  resorted  only  to  the  sign  language. 

"The  women  were  also  wicked,"  she  said. 
"Of  a  man  what  does  one  expect?  But  of  a 
woman !  And  the  younger  one  looked  —  Herr 
Gott!  She  had  the  eyes  of  a  saint!  The  little 
Georgiev  was  mad  for  her.  When  the  three 
of  them  left,  disgraced,  as  one  may  say,  he 
came  to  me,  he  threatened  me.  The  Herr 
Schwarz,  God  rest  his  soul,  was  a  violent  man, 
but  never  spoke  he  so  to  me!" 

"She  says,"  interpreted  Dr.  Jennings,  "that 
they  were  a  bad  lot  —  that  the  younger  one 
made  eyes  at  the  Herr  Schwarz!" 

Mrs.  Boyer  drew  her  ancient  sables  about 
her  and  put  a  tremulous  hand  on  the  other 
woman's  arm. 

"What  an  escape  for  you!"  she  said.  "If 
you  had  gone  there  to  live  and  then  found  the 
establishment  —  queer!" 

From  the  kitchen  of  the  pension,  Olga  was 
listening,  an  ear  to  the  door.  Behind  her,  also 
listening,  but  less  advantageously,  was  Ka- 
trina. 

237 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"American  ladies!"  said  Olga.  "Two,  old 
and  fat." 

"More  hot  water!"  growled  Katrina.  "Why 
do  not  the  Americans  stay  in  their  own  coun 
try,  where  the  water,  I  have  learned,  comes  hot 
from  the  earth." 

Olga,  bending  forward,  opened  the  door  a 
crack  wider. 

"Sh!  They  do  not  come  for  rooms.  They 
inquire  for  the  Herr  Doktor  Byrne  and  the 
others!" 

"No!" 

"Of  a  certainty." 

"Then  let  me  to  the  door!" 

"A  moment.  She  tells  them  everything  and 
more.  She  says  —  how  she  is  wicked,  Katrina ! 
She  says  the  Fraulein  Harmony  was  not  good, 
that  she  sent  them  all  away.  Here,  take  the 
door!" 

Thus  it  happened  that  Dr.  Jennings  and 
Mrs.  Boyer,  having  shaken  off  the  dust  of  a 
pension  that  had  once  harbored  three  male 
factors,  and  having  retired  Peter  and  Anna  and 
Harmony  into  the  limbo  of  things  best  for 
gotten  or  ignored,  found  themselves,  at  the 
corner,  confronted  by  a  slovenly  girl  in  heelless 
slippers  and  wearing  a  knitted  shawl  over  her 
head. 

"The  Frau  Schwarz  is  wrong,"  cried  Olga 
238 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

passionately  in  Vienna  dialect.  "They  were 
good,  all  of  them!" 

"  What  in  the  world  - 

"And,  please,  tell  me  where  lives  the  Frau- 
lein  Harmony.  The  Herr  Georgiev  eats  not  nor 
sleeps  that  he  cannot  find  her." 

Dr.  Jennings  was  puzzled. 

"She  wishes  to  know  where  the  girl  lives," 
she  interpreted  to  Mrs.  Boyer.  "A  man  wishes 
to  know." 

"Naturally!"  said  Mrs.  Boyer.  "Well,  don't 
tell  her." 

Olga  gathered  from  the  tone  rather  than  the 
words  that  she  was  not  to  be  told.  She  burst 
into  a  despairing  appeal  in  which  the  Herr 
Georgiev,  Peter,  a  necktie  Peter  had  forgotten, 
open  windows,  and  hot  water  were  inextricably 
confused.  Dr.  Jennings  listened,  then  waved 
her  back  with  a  gesture. 

"She  says,"  she  interpreted  as  they  walked 
on,  "that  Dr.  Peter  —  by  which  I  suppose  she 
means  Dr.  Byrne  —  has  left  a  necktie,  and  that 
she'll  be  in  hot  water  if  she  does  not  return  it." 

Mrs.  Boyer  sniffed. 

"In  love  with  him,  probably,  like  the  others!" 
she  said. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PETER  went  to  Semmering  the  next  morn 
ing,  tiptoeing  out  very  early  and  without 
breakfast.  He  went  in  to  cover  Jimmy,  lying 
diagonally  across  his  small  bed  amid  a  riot  of 
tossed  blankets.  The  communicating  door  into 
Harmony's  room  was  open.  Peter  kept  his  eyes 
carefully  from  it,  but  his  ears  were  less  under 
control.  He  could  hear  her  soft  breathing. 
There  were  days  coming  when  Peter  would 
stand  where  he  stood  then  and  listen,  and  find 
only  silence. 

He  tore  himself  away  at  last,  closing  the  outer 
door  carefully  behind  him  and  lighting  a  match 
to  find  his  way  down  the  staircase.  The  Portier 
was  not  awake.  Peter  had  to  rouse  him,  and  to 
stand  by  while  he  donned  the  trousers  which  he 
deemed  necessary  to  the  dignity  of  his  position 
before  he  opened  the  street  door. 

Reluctant  as  he  had  been  to  go,  the  change 
was  good  for  Peter.  The  dawn  grew  rosy, 
promised  sunshine,  fulfilled  its  promise.  The 
hurrying  crowds  at  the  depot  interested  him: 
he  enjoyed  his  coffee,  taken  from  a  bare  table 
in  the  station.  The  horizontal  morning  sun- 

240 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

light,  shining  in  through  marvelously  clean 
windows,  warmed  the  marble  of  the  floor,  made 
black  shadows  beside  the  heaps  of  hand  luggage 
everywhere,  turned  into  gold  the  hair  of  a  tod 
dling  baby  venturing  on  a  tour  of  discovery. 
The  same  morning  light,  alas!  revealed  to 
Peter  a  break  across  the  toe  of  one  of  his  shoes. 
Peter  sighed,  then  smiled.  The  baby  was 
catching  at  the  bits  of  dust  that  floated  in  the 
sunshine. 

Suddenly  a  great  wave  of  happiness  over 
whelmed  Peter.  It  was  a  passing  thing,  born 
of  nothing,  but  for  the  instant  that  it  lasted 
Peter  was  a  king.  Everything  was  well.  The 
world  was  his  oyster.  Life  was  his,  to  make  it 
what  he  would  —  youth  and  hope  and  joy. 
Under  the  beatific  influence  he  expanded,  grew, 
almost  shone.  Youth  and  hope  and  joy  —  that 
cometh  in  the  morning. 

The  ecstasy  passed  away,  but  without  reac 
tion.  Peter  no  longer  shone;  he  still  glowed. 
He  picked  up  the  golden-haired  baby  and 
hugged  it.  He  hunted  out  a  beggar  he  had 
passed  and  gave  him  five  Hellers.  He  helped 
a  suspicious  old  lady  with  an  oilcloth-covered 
bundle;  he  called  the  guard  on  the  train  "son" 
and  forced  a  grin  out  of  that  dignitary. 

Peter  traveled  third-class,  which  was  quite 
comfortable,  and  no  bother  about  "Nicht 

241 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Rauchen"  signs.  His  unreasonable  cheerful 
ness  persisted  as  far  as  Gloggnitz.  There,  with 
the  increasing  ruggedness  of  the  scenery  and 
his  first  view  of  the  Raxalpe,  came  recollection 
of  the  urgency  of  Stewart's  last  message,  of 
Marie  Jedlicka,  of  the  sordid  little  tragedy 
that  awaited  him  at  the  end  of  his  journey. 

Peter  sobered.  Life  was  rather  a  mess,  after 
all,  he  reflected.  Love  was  a  blessing,  but  it 
was  also  a  curse.  After  that  he  sat  back  in  his 
corner  and  let  the  mountain  scenery  take  care 
of  itself,  while  he  recalled  the  look  he  had 
surprised  once  or  twice  in  Marie's  eyes  when 
she  looked  at  Stewart.  It  was  sad,  pitiful. 
Marie  was  a  clever  little  thing.  If  only  she  'd 
had  a  chance! —  Why  wasn't  he  rich  enough 
to  help  the  ones  who  needed  help.  Marie 
could  start  again  in  America,  with  no  one  the 
wiser,  and  make  her  way. 

"Smart  as  the  devil,  these  Austrian  girls!" 
Peter  reflected.  "Poor  little  guttersnipe!" 

The  weather  was  beautiful.  The  sleet  of  the 
previous  day  in  Vienna  had  been  a  deep  snow 
fall  on  the  mountains.  The  Schwarza  was 
frozen,  the  castle  of  Liechtenstein  was  gray 
against  a  white  world.  A  little  pilgrimage  church 
far  below  seemed  snowed  in  against  the  faith 
ful.  The  third-class  compartment  filled  with 
noisy  skiing  parties.  The  old  woman  opened 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

her  oilcloth  bundle,  and  taking  a  cat  out  of  a 
box  inside  fed  it  a  sausage. 

Up  and  up,  past  the  Weinzettelwand  and 
the  Station  Breitenstein,  across  the  highest 
viaduct,  the  Kalte  Rinne,  and  so  at  last  to 
Semmering. 

The  glow  had  died  at  last  for  Peter.  He  did 
not  like  his  errand,  was  very  vague,  indeed,  as 
to  just  what  that  errand  might  be.  He  was 
stiff  and  rather  cold.  Also  he  thought  the  cat 
might  stifle  in  the  oilcloth,  but  the  old  woman 
too  clearly  distrusted  him  to  make  it  possible 
to  interfere.  Anyhow,  he  did  not  know  the 
German  for  either  cat  or  oilcloth. 

He  had  wired  Stewart;  but  the  latter  was  not 
at  the  station.  This  made  him  vaguely  uneasy, 
he  hardly  knew  why.  He  did  not  know  Stewart 
well  enough  to  know  whether  he  was  punctilious 
in  such  matters  or  not:  as  a  matter  of  fact  he 
hardly  knew  him  at  all.  It  was  because  he  had 
appealed  to  him  that  Peter  was  there,  it  being 
only  necessary  to  Peter  to  be  needed,  and  he  was 
anywhere. 

The  Pension  Waldheim  was  well  up  the 
mountains.  He  shouldered  his  valise  and  started 
up  —  first  long  flights  of  steps  through  the  pines, 
then  a  steep  road.  Peter  climbed  easily.  Here 
and  there  he  met  groups  coming  down,  men 
that  he  thought  probably  American,  pretty 

243 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

women  in  "tarns"  and  sweaters.  He  watched 
for  Marie,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  her. 

He  was  half  an  hour,  perhaps,  in  reaching 
the  Waldheim.  As  he  turned  in  at  the  gate  he 
noticed  a  sledge,  with  a  dozen  people  following 
it,  coming  toward  him.  It  was  a  singularly  silent 
party.  Peter,  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knocker, 
watched  its  approach  with  some  curiosity. 

It  stopped,  and  the  men  who  had  been  fol 
lowing  closed  up  round  it.  Even  then  Peter  did 
not  understand.  He  did  not  understand  until 
he  saw  Stewart,  limp  and  unconscious,  lifted 
out  of  the  straw  and  carried  toward  him. 

Suicide  may  be  moral  cowardice;  but  it 
requires  physical  bravery.  And  Marie  was  not 
brave.  The  balcony  had  attracted  her:  it 
opened  possibilities  of  escape,  of  unceasing 
regret  and  repentance  for  Stewart,  of  publicity 
that  would  mean  an  end  to  the  situation. 
But  every  inch  of  her  soul  was  craven  at  the 
thought.  She  crept  out  often  and  looked  down, 
and  as  often  drew  back,  shuddering.  To  fall 
down,  down  on  to  the  tree  tops,  to  be  dropped 
from  branch  to  branch,  a  broken  thing,  and 
perhaps  even  not  yet  dead  —  that  was  the 
unthinkable  thing,  to  live  for  a  time  and  suffer! 
'  Stewart  was  not  ignorant  of  all  that  went 
on  in  her  mind.  She  had  threatened  him  with 

244 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  balcony,  just  as,  earlier  in  the  winter,  it  had 
been  a  window-ledge  with  which  she  had  fright 
ened  him.  But  there  was  this  difference,  whereas 
before  he  had  drawn  her  back  from  the  window 
and  slapped  her  into  sanity,  now  he  let  her 
alone.  At  the  end  of  one  of  their  quarrels  she 
had  flung  out  on  to  the  balcony,  and  then  had 
watched  him  through  the  opening  in  the  shutter. 
He  had  lighted  a  cigarette ! 

Stewart  spent  every  daylight  hour  at  the 
hotel,  or  walking  over  the  mountain  roads, 
seldom  alone  with  Anita,  but  always  near  her. 
He  left  Marie  sulking  or  sewing,  as  the  case 
might  be.  He  returned  in  the  evening  to  find 
her  still  sulking,  still  sewing. 

But  Marie  did  not  sulk  all  day,  or  sew.  She 
too  was  out,  never  far  from  Stewart,  always 
watching.  Many  times  she  escaped  discovery 
only  by  a  miracle,  as  when  she  stooped  behind 
an  oxcart,  pretending  to  tie  her  shoe,  or  once 
when  they  all  met  face  to  face,  and  although 
she  lowered  her  veil  Stewart  must  have  known 
her  instantly  had  he  not  been  so  intent  on  help 
ing  Anita  over  a  slippery  gutter. 

She  planned  a  dozen  forms  of  revenge  and 
found  them  impossible  of  execution.  Stewart 
himself  was  frightfully  unhappy.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  was  really  in  love,  with  all 
the  humility  of  the  condition.  There  were  days 

245 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

when  he  would  not  touch  Anita's  hand,  when 
he  hardly  spoke,  when  the  girl  herself  would  have 
been  outraged  at  his  conduct  had  she  not  now 
and  then  caught  him  watching  her,  seen  the 
wretchedness  in  his  eyes. 

The  form  of  Marie's  revenge  was  unpre 
meditated,  after  all.  The  light  mountain  snow 
was  augmented  by  a  storm;  roads  were  ploughed 
through  early  in  the  morning,  leaving  great 
banks  on  either  side.  Sleigh-bells  were  every 
where.  Coasting  parties  made  the  steep  roads 
a  menace  to  the  pedestrian;  every  up-climbing 
sleigh  carried  behind  it  a  string  of  sleds,  going 
back  to  the  starting-point. 

Below  the  hotel  was  the  Serpentine  Coast, 
a  long  and  dangerous  course,  full  of  high-banked 
curves,  of  sudden  descents,  of  long  straightaway 
dashes  through  the  woodland.  Two  miles, 
perhaps  three,  it  wound  its  tortuous  way  down 
the  mountain.  Up  by  the  highroad  to  the  crest 
again,  only  a  mile  or  less.  Thus  it  happened  that 
the  track  was  always  clear,  except  for  speeding 
sleds.  No  coasters,  dragging  sleds  back  up  the 
slide,  interfered. 

The  track  was  crowded.  Every  minute  a  sled 
set  out,  sped  down  the  straightaway,  dipped, 
turned,  disappeared.  A  dozen  would  be  lined 
up,  waiting  for  the  interval  and  the  signal. 
And  here,  watching  from  the  porch  of  the  church, 

246 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

in  the  very  shadow  of  the  saints,  Marie  found 
her  revenge. 

Stewart  had  given  her  a  little  wrist  watch. 
Stewart  and  Anita  were  twelfth  in  line.  By 
the  watch,  then,  twelve  minutes  down  the 
mountain-side,  straight  down  through  the  trees 
to  a  curve  that  Marie  knew  well,  a  bad  curve, 
only  to  be  taken  by  running  well  up  on  the 
snowbank.  Beyond  the  snowbank  there  was  a 
drop,  fifteen  feet,  perhaps  more,  into  the  yard 
of  a  Russian  villa.  Stewart  and  Anita  were 
twelfth;  a  man  in  a  green  stocking-cap  was 
eleventh.  The  hillside  was  steep.  Marie  nego 
tiated  it  by  running  from  tree  to  tree,  catching 
herself,  steadying  for  a  second,  then  down 
again.  Once  she  fell  and  rolled  a  little  distance. 
There  was  no  time  to  think;  perhaps  had  she 
thought  she  would  have  weakened.  She  had 
no  real  courage,  only  desperation. 

As  she  reached  the  track  the  man  in  the  green 
stocking-cap  was  in  sight.  A  minute  and  a 
half  she  had  then,  not  more.  She  looked  about 
her  hastily.  A  stone  might  serve  her  purpose, 
almost  anything  that  would  throw  the  sled  out 
of  its  course.  She  saw  a  tree  branch  just  above 
the  track  and  dragged  at  it  frantically.  Some  one 
was  shouting  at  her  from  an  upper  window  of 
the  Russian  villa.  She  did  not  hear.  Stewart 
and  Anita  had  made  the  curve  above  and  were 

247 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

coming  down  -at  frantic  speed.  Marie  stood, 
her  back  to  the  oncoming  rush  of  the  sled, 
swaying  slightly.  When  she  could  hear  the 
singing  of  the  runners  she  stooped  and  slid  the 
tree  branch  out  across  the  track. 

She  had  acted  almost  by  instinct,  but  with 
devilish  skill.  The  sled  swung  to  one  side  up 
the  snowbank,  and  launched  itself  into  the 
air.  Marie  heard  the  thud  and  the  silence  that 
followed  it.  Then  she  turned  and  scuttled  like 
a  hunted  thing  up  the  mountain-side. 

Peter  put  in  a  bad  day.  Marie  was  not  about, 
could  not  be  located.  Stewart,  suffering  from 
concussion,  lay  insensible  all  day  arid  all  of  the 
night.  Peter  could  find  no  fracture,  but  felt  it 
wise  to  get  another  opinion.  In  the  afternoon 
he  sent  for  a  doctor  from  the  Kurhaus  and 
learned  for  the  first  time  that  Anita  had  also 
been  hurt  —  a  broken  arm. 

"Not  serious,"  said  the  Kurhaus  man.  "She 
is  brave,  very  brave,  the  young  woman.  I 
believe  they  are  engaged?" 

Peter  said  he  did  not  know  and  thought  very 
hard.  Where  was  Marie?  Not  gone  surely, 
Here  about  him  lay  all  her  belongings,  even 
her  purse. 

Toward  evening  Stewart  showed  some  im 
provement.  He  was  not  conscious,  but  he 

248 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

swallowed  better  and  began  to  toss  about, 
Peter,  who  had  had  a  long  day  and  very  little 
sleep  the  night  before,  began  to  look  jaded, 
He  would  have  sent  for  a  nurse  from  the  Kur- 
haus,  but  he  doubted  Stewart's  ability  to  stand 
any  extra  financial  strain,  and  Peter  could  not 
help  any. 

The  time  for  supper  passed,  and  no  Marie, 
The  landlady  sent  up  a  tray  to  Peter,  stewed 
meat  and  potatoes,  a  salad,  coffee.  Peter  sal 
in  a  corner  with  his  back  to  Stewart  and  ate 
ravenously.  He  had  had  nothing  since  the 
morning's  coffee.  After  that  he  sat  down  again 
by  the  bed  to  watch.  There  was  little  to  do  bui 
watch. 

The  meal  had  made  him  drowsy.  He  though! 
longingly  of  his  pipe.  Perhaps  if  he  got  some 
fresh  air  and  a  smoke!  He  remembered  the 
balcony. 

It  was  there  on  the  balcony  that  he  founc 
Marie,  a  cowering  thing  that  pushed  his  hands 
away  when  he  would  have  caught  her  anc 
broke  into  passionate  crying. 

"  I  cannot !  I  cannot ! " 

"Cannot  what?"  demanded  Peter  gently 
watching  her.  So  near  was  the  balcony  rail! 

"Throw  myself  over.  I've  tried,  Peter.  ] 
cannot!" 

"I  should  think  not!"  said  Peter  sternly 
249 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Just  now  when  we  need  you,  too!  Come  in 
and  don't  be  a  foolish  child." 

But  Marie  would  not  go  in.  She  held  back, 
clinging  tight  to  Peter's  big  hand,  moaning 
out  in  the  dialect  of  the  people  that  always 
confused  him  her  story  of  the  day,  of  what  she 
had  done,  of  watching  Stewart  brought  back, 
of  stealing  into  the  house  and  through  an  ad 
jacent  room  to  the  balcony,  of  her  desperation 
and  her  cowardice. 

She  was  numb  with  cold,  exhaustion,  and 
hunger,  quite  childish,  helpless.  Peter  stood 
out  on  the  balcony  with  his  arm  round  her, 
while  the  night  wind  beat  about  them,  and 
pondered  what  was  best  to  do.  He  thought  she 
might  come  in  and  care  for  Stewart,  at  least, 
until  he  was  conscious.  He  could  get  her  some 
supper. 

"How  can  I?"  she  asked.  "I  was  seen.  They 
are  searching  for  me  now.  Oh,  Peter!  Peter!" 

"Who    is    searching    for    you?     Who    saw 

you?" 

:'The  people  in  the  Russian  villa." 

"Did  they  see  your  face?" 

"I  wore  a  veil.   I  think  not." 

"Then  come  in  and  change  your  clothes. 
There  is  a  train  down  at  midnight.  You  can 
take  it." 

"I  have  no  money." 

250 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

This  raised  a  delicate  question.  Marie  ab 
solutely  refused  to  take  Stewart's  money.  She 
had  almost  none  of  her  own.  And  there  were 
other  complications  —  where  was  she  to  go? 
The  family  of  the  injured  girl  did  not  suspect 
her  since  they  did  not  know  of  her  existence. 
She  might  get  away  without  trouble.  But  after 
that,  what? 

Peter  pondered  this  on  the  balcony,  while 
Marie  in  the  bedroom  was  changing  her  clothing, 
soaked  with  a  day  in  the  snow.  He  came  to  the 
inevitable  decision,  the  decision  he  knew  at  the 
beginning  that  he  was  going  to  make. 

"If  I  could  only  put  it  up  to  Harmony  first!" 
he  reflected.  "But  she  will  understand  when  I 
tell  her.  She  always  understands." 

Standing  there  on  the  little  balcony,  with 
tragedy  the  thickness  of  a  pine  board  beyond 
him,  Peter  experienced  a  bit  of  the  glow  of  the 
morning,  as  of  one  who  stumbling  along  in  a 
dark  place  puts  a  hand  on  a  friend. 

He  went  into  the  room.  Stewart  was  lying 
very  still  and  breathing  easily.  On  her  knees 
beside  the  bed  knelt  Marie.  At  Peter's  step  she 
rose  and  faced  him. 

"I  am  leaving  him,  Peter,  for  always." 

"Good!"  said  Peter  heartily.  "Better  for 
you  and  better  for  him." 

Marie  drew  a  long  breath.  "The  night  train," 
251 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

she  said  listlessly,  "is  an  express.  I  had  for 
gotten.  It  is  double  fare." 

"What  of  that,  little  sister?"  said  Peter. 
"What  is  a  double  fare  when  it  means  life, 
liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness?  And 
there  will  be  happiness,  little  sister." 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  Portier  was  almost  happy  that  morning. 
For  one  thing,  he  had  won  honorable 
mention  at  the  Schubert  Society  the  night 
before;  for  another,  that  night  the  Engel  was 
to  sing  Mignon,  and  the  Portier  had  spent  his 
Christmas  tips  for  a  ticket.  All  day  long  he 
had  been  poring  over  the  score. 

: '  Kennst  du  das  Land  wo  die  Citronen 
bliihen?'  he  sang  with  feeling  while  he  pol 
ished  the  floors.  He  polished  them  with  his  feet, 
wearing  felt  boots  for  the  purpose,  and  execut 
ing  in  the  doing  a  sort  of  ungainly  dance  — 
a  sprinkle  of  wax,  right  foot  forward  and  back, 
left  foot  forward  and  back,  both  feet  forward 
and  back  in  a  sort  of  double  shuffle;  more  wax, 
more  vigorous  polishing,  more  singing,  with 
longer  pauses  for  breath.  !  'Knowest  thou  the 
land  where  the  lemon  trees  bloom?'  '  he  bel 
lowed  —  sprinkle  of  wax,  right  foot,  left  foot,  any 
foot  at  all.  Now  and  then  he  took  the  score  from 
his  pocket  and  pored  over  it,  humming  the  air, 
raising  his  eyebrows  over  the  high  notes, 
dropping  his  chin  to  the  low  ones.  It  was  a 
wonderful  morning.  Between  greetings  to 

253 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

neighbors  he   sang  —  a   bit  of  talk,   a  bit   of 
song. 

: '  Kennst  du  das  Land '  —  Good-morning,  sir 
-  the  old  Rax  wears  a  crown.  It  will  snow  soon. 
*  Kennst  du  das  Land  wo  die  Citronen'  -Ah, 
madam  the  milk  Frau,  and  are  the  cows  frozen 
up  to-day  like  the  pump?  No?  Marvelous! 
Dost  thou  know  that  to-night  is  Mignon  at  the 
Opera,  and  that  the  Engel  sings?  '  Kennst  du 
das  Land ' 

At  eleven  came  Rosa  with  her  husband,  the 
soldier  from  Salzburg  with  one  lung.  He  was 
having  a  holiday  from  his  sentry  duty  at  the 
hospital,  and  the  one  lung  seemed  to  be  a  libel, 
for  while  the  women  had  coffee  together  and 
a  bit  of  mackerel  he  sang  a  very  fair  bass  to  the 
Portier's  tenor.  Together  they  pored  over  the 
score,  and  even  on  their  way  to  the  beer  hall 
hummed  together  such  bits  as  they  recalled. 

On  one  point  they  differed.  The  score  was 
old  and  soiled  with  much  thumbing.  At  one 
point,  destroyed  long  since,  the  sentry  sang  A 
sharp:  the  Portier  insisted  on  A  natural.  They 
argued  together  over  three  Steins  of  beer;  the 
waiter,  referred  to,  decided  for  A  flat.  It  was 
a  serious  matter  to  have  one's  teeth  set,  as  one 
may  say,  for  a  natural  and  then  to  be  shocked 
with  an  unexpected  half-tone  up  or  down!  It 
destroyed  the  illusion;  it  disappointed;  it  hurt. 

254 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  sentry  stuck  to  the  sharp  —  it  was  sung 
so  at  the  Salzburg  opera.  The  Portier  snapped 
his  thumb  at  the  Salzburg  opera.  Things  were 
looking  serious;  they  walked  back  to  the  lodge 
in  silence.  The  sentry  coughed.  Possibly  there 
was  something,  after  all,  in  the  one-lung  rumor. 

It  was  then  that  the  Portier  remembered 
'Harmony.  She  would  know;  perhaps  she  had 
the  score. 

Harmony  was  having  a  bad  morning.  She 
had  slept  little  until  dawn,  and  Peter's  stealthy 
closing  of  the  outer  door  had  wakened  her  by 
its  very  caution.  After  that  there  had  been  no 
more  sleep.  She  had  sat  up  in  bed  with  her  chin 
in  her  hands  and  thought. 

In  the  pitiless  dawn,  with  no  Peter  to  restore 
her  to  cheerfulness,  things  looked  black,  indeed. 
To  what  had  she  fallen,  that  first  one  man  and 
then  another  must  propose  marriage  to  her  to 
save  her.  To  save  her  from  what?  From  what 
people  thought,  or  —  each  from  the  other? 
Were  men  so  evil  that  they  never  trusted  each 
other?  McLean  had  frankly  distrusted  Peter, 
had  said  so.  Or  could  it  be  that  there  was  some 
thing  about  her,  something  light  and  frivolous? 
She  had  been  frivolous.  She  always  laughed  at 
Peter's  foolishnesses.  Perhaps  that  was  it. 
That  was  it.  They  were  afraid  for  her.  She  had 

255 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

thrown  herself  on  Peter's  hands  —  almost  into 
his  arms.  She  had  made  this  situation. 

She  must  get  away,  of  course.  If  only  she 
had  some  one  to  care  for  Jimmy  until  Peter 
returned!  But  there  was  no  one.  The  Portier's 
wife  was  fond  of  Jimmy,  but  not  skillful.  And 
suppose  he  were  to  wake  in  the  night  and  call 
for  her  and  she  would  not  come.  She  cried  a 
little  over  this.  After  a  time  she  pattered  across 
the  room  in  her  bare  feet  and  got  from  a  bureau 
drawer  the  money  she  had  left.  There  was  not 
half  enough  to  take  her  home.  She  could  write; 
the  little  mother  might  get  some  for  her,  but  at 
infinite  cost,  infinite  humiliation.  That  would 
have  to  be  a  final,  desperate  resort. 

She  felt  a  little  more  cheerful  when  she  had 
had  a  cup  of  coffee.  Jimmy  wakened  about 
that  time,  and  she  went  through  the  details  of 
his  morning  toilet  with  all  the  brightness  she 
could  assume  —  bath  blankets,  warm  bath, 
toenails,  finger-nails,  fresh  nightgown,  fresh 
sheets,  and  —  final  touch  of  all  —  a  real  barber's 
part  straight  from  crown  to  brow.  After  that 
ten  minutes  under  extra  comforters  while  the 
room  aired. 

She  hung  over  the  boy  that  morning  in  an 
agony  of  tenderness  —  he  was  so  little,  so  frail, 
and  she  must  leave  him.  Only  one  thing  sus 
tained  her.  The  boy  loved  her,  but  it  was  Peter 

256 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

he  idolized.  When  he  had  Peter  he  needed 
nothing  else.  In  some  curious  process  of  his 
childish  mind  Peter  and  Daddy  mingled  in 
inextricable  confusion.  More  than  once  he 
had  recalled  events  in  the  roving  life  he  and  his 
father  had  led. 

"You  remember  that,  don't  you?"  he  would 
say. 

"Certainly  I  remember,"  Peter  would  reply 
heartily. 

"That  evening  on  the  steamer  when  I  ate  so 
many  raisins." 

"Of  course.   And  were  ill." 

"Not  ill  —  not  that  time.  But  you  said  I'd 
make  a  good  pudding!  You  remember  that, 
don't  you?" 

And  Peter  would  recall  it  all. 

Peter  would  be  left.  That  was  the  girl's 
comfort. 

She  made  a  beginning  at  gathering  her  things 
together  that  morning,  while  the  boy  dozed  and 
the  white  mice  scurried  about  the  little  cage. 
She  could  not  take  her  trunk,  or  Peter  would 
trace  it.  She  would  have  to  carry  her  belong 
ings,  a  few  at  a  time,  to  wherever  she  found  a 
room.  Then  when  Peter  came  back  she  could 
slip  away  and  he  would  never  find  her. 

At  noon  came  the  Portier  and  the  sentry, 
now  no  longer  friends,  and^rang  the  doorbell. 

257 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  was  rather  startled.  McLean  and 
Mrs.  Boyer  had  been  her  only  callers,  and  she 
did  not  wish  to  see  either  of  them.  But  after  a 
second  ring  she  gathered  her  courage  in  her  hands 
and  opened  the  door. 

She  turned  pale  when  she  saw  the  sentry  in 
his  belted  blue-gray  tunic  and  high  cap.  She 
thought,  of  course,  that  Jimmy  had  been  traced 
and  that  now  he  would  be  taken  away.  If  the 
sentry  knew  her,  however,  he  kept  his  face 
impassive  and  merely  touched  his  cap.  The 
Portier  stated  their  errand.  Harmony's  face 
cleared.  She  even  smiled  as  the  Portier  extended 
to  her  the  thumbed  score  with  its  missing  corner. 
What,  after  all,  does  it  matter  which  was  right 
—  whether  it  was  A  sharp  or  A  natural?  What 
really  matters  is  that  Harmony,  having  settled 
the  dispute  and  clinched  the  decision  by  run 
ning  over  the  score  for  a  page  or  two,  turned  to 
find  the  Portier,  ecstatic  eyes  upturned,  hands 
folded  on  paunch,  enjoying  a  delirium  of  pleas 
ure,  and  the  sentry  nowhere  in  sight. 

He  was  discovered  a  moment  later  in  the 
doorway  of  Jimmy's  room,  where,  taciturn  as 
ever,  severe,  martial,  he  stood  at  attention, 
shoulders  back,  arms  at  his  sides,  thumbs  in. 
In  this  position  he  was  making,  with  amazing 
rapidity,  a  series  of  hideous  grimaces  for  the 
benefit  of  the  little  boy  in  the  jbed:  marvelous 

258 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

faces  they  were,  in  which  nose,  mouth,  and  eyes 
seemed  interchangeable,  where  features  played 
leapfrog  with  one  another.  When  all  was  over 
-  perhaps  when  his  repertoire  was  exhausted 
—  the  sentry  returned  his  nose  to  the  center 
of  his  face,  replaced  eyes  and  mouth,  and  wiped 
the  ensemble  with  a  blue  cotton  handkerchief. 
Then,  still  in  silence,  he  saluted  and  withdrew, 
leaving  the  youngster  enraptured,  staring  at 
the  doorway. 

Harmony  had  decided  the  approximate  loca 
tion  of  her  room.  In  the  higher  part  of  the  city, 
in  the  sixteenth  district,  there  were  many  un 
pretentious  buildings.  She  had  hunted  board 
there  and  she  knew.  It  was  far  from  the  Stadt, 
far  from  the  fashionable  part  of  town,  a  neigh 
borhood  of  small  shops,  of  frank  indigence. 
There  surely  she  could  find  a  room,  and  per 
haps  in  one  of  the  small  stores  what  she  failed 
to  secure  in  the  larger,  a  position. 

Rosa  having  taken  her  soldier  away,  Harmony 
secured  the  Portier's  wife  to  sit  with  Jimmy 
and  spent  two  hours  that  afternoon  looking 
about  for  a  room.  She  succeeded  finally  in 
finding  one,  a  small  and  wretchedly  furnished 
bedroom,  part  of  the  suite  of  a  cheap  dress 
maker.  The  approach  was  forbidding  enough. 
One  entered  a  cavelike,  cobble-paved  court 

259 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

under  the  bmkfing.  filled  with  wagons,  feeding 
horses,  quarrelsome  and  swearing  teamsters. 

7:  :•.-.  :!•:  ?:  :  -:  \  -'  ::  -'  ::•:  .>  :  :  •  -•  :  ~.  '-'.'.  i  .-:•:. 
I  willing  from  one  landing  cave  to  another,  to 
:_r  -7J-:  f.  •  :. 

Here  fired  the  dressmaker,  amid  the  constant 
-I:—:".:  :--;:._-::_:  ^..:.  -  :"..:  \  .  :'—  :rk- 
peopie.  Hanoooy  ,  seeking  not  a  home  but  a 
hiding-place,  took  the  room  at  once.  She  was 
i.?k^i  :  :  L  77:-:::^::  In  i  ?.:r:  ::  ^:~"  -~-~ 
this  haven  fail  her  she  paid  for  a  week  in  ad 
vance.  The  wooden  bed,  the  cracked  mirror 
over  the  table,  even  the  pigeons  outside  on  the 
window-fiffl  woe  hers  for  a  week. 

The  dressmaker  was  friendly,   almost   gar- 


"I  wffl  haw  it  deaned,"  she  explained.  "I 
have  been  so  busy:  the  masquerade  season  is 
on.  The  Frankxn  is  American,  is  she  not?" 

"Yes." 

"One  knows  the  Americans.  They  are  chic, 

not  Kb*  the  TfoiRA-     J  have 


Harmooy  started.  The  dreasmakerwas  shrewd. 
Many  people  hid  in  the  sixteenth  district.  She 

"   r-o"."-  ~:_-:  zir.. 


""They  wiD  not  cfistnrb  you.   And  just  now 
I  have  but  one,  a  dancer.  I  shaD  have  the  room 
Good-bye,  Fraulein.1* 

i.  : 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

So  far,  good.  She  had  a  refuge  now,  one  spot 
that  the  venom  of  yrimtnl  could  not  p"*^1^ 
where  die  could  study  and  work  —  work  hard, 
although  there  could  be  no  mote  !»••"••  —  one 
spat  where  Peter  would  not  have  to  protect  her, 
where  Peter,  indeed,  would  never  find  her.  Tins 
thought,  which,  should  hare  lauught  comfort, 


bought  all  at  once;  shabby,  wholesome,  hearty 
Peter,  with  his  rough  hair  and  quiet  voice,  his 

"..  '~.'-.~:..2    T.'  '.>'.-•:-:'.-    ini    r"..-r.i--7    ryrf 
!-::.-  ::.j  ?-:-:-::  :  irrVrr.  v  ::  :  :_  i  nj  ..L  _•  iif 


ship  for  that  of  a  row  of  pigeons  on  a  »BM|OW- 
saH.  He  would  find  some  one,  of  niaur;  but 
who  would  know  that  he  Eked  toast  made  hard 
and  plenty  of  butter,  or  to  leave  Ms  bed-cloth 
ing  loose  at  the  foot,  Peter  being  very  long  and 
apt  to  lop  over?  The  lopping  over  brought  a 
tear  or  two.  A  very  teary  and  tragic  young 
heroine,  this  Harmony,  prone  to  go  about  for 
the  last  day  or  two  with  a  «l«"p  little  handker 
chief  tucked  in  her  sleeve. 

r^.v  '.-.-'.-  ii—  -•:-.-••  :  ~-  .li  r.-iirMf.-:  i"i  LI.:  : 
the  cave  below.  Fate  hangs  by  a  very  jlrmirr 
thread  sometimes.  K  a  wagon  had  not  lum 
bered  by  as  she  reached  the  lowest  step,  so  that 
she  must  wait  and  thus  had  time  to  lower  her 
veil,  she  would  nave  been  recognised  at  once  by 
the  little  Georgiev,  waiting  to  ascend.  But  the 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

wagon  was  there,  Harmony  lowered  her  veil, 
the  little  Georgiev,  passing  a  veiled  young 
woman  in  the  gloom,  went  up  the  staircase  with 
even  pulses  and  calm  and  judicial  bearing,  up 
to  the  tiny  room  a  floor  or  two  below  Har 
mony's,  where  he  wrote  reports  to  the  Minister 
of  War  and  mixed  them  with  sonnets  —  to 
Harmony. 

Harmony  went  back  to  the  Siebensternstrasse, 
having  accomplished  what  she  had  set  out  to  do 
and  being  very  wretched  in  consequence. 
Because  she  was  leaving  the  boy  so  soon  she 
strove  to  atone  for  her  coming  defection  by 
making  it  a  gala  evening.  The  child  was  very 
happy.  She  tucked  him  up  in  the  salon,  lighted 
all  the  candles,  served  him  the  daintiest  of 
suppers  there.  She  brought  in  the  mice  and  tied 
tiny  bows  on  their  necks;  she  played  checkers 
with  him  while  the  supper  dishes  waited,  and 
went  down  to  defeat  in  three  hilarious  games; 
and  last  of  all  she  played  to  him,  joyous  music 
at  first,  then  slower,  drowsier  airs,  until  his 
heavy  head  dropped  on  his  shoulder  and  she 
gathered  him  up  in  tender  arms  and  carried  him 
to  bed. 

It  was  dawn  when  Marie  arrived.  Harmony 
was  sleeping  soundly  when  the  bell  rang.  Her 
first  thought  was  that  Peter  had  come  back  — 
but  Peter  carried  a  key.  The  bell  rang  again, 

262 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  she  slipped  on  the  old  kimono  and  went  to 
the  door. 

"Is  it  Peter?"  she  called,  hand  on  knob. 

"I  come  from  Peter.  I  have  a  letter,"  in 
German. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"You  do  not  know  me  —  Marie  Jedlicka. 
Please  let  me  come  in." 

Bewildered,  Harmony  opened  the  door,  and 
like  a  gray  ghost  Marie  slipped  by  her  and  into 
the  hall. 

There  was  a  gaslight  burning  very  low; 
Harmony  turned  it  up  and  faced  her  visitor. 
She  recognized  her  at  once  —  the  girl  Dr. 
Stewart  had  been  with  in  the  coffee-house. 

"Something  has  happened  to  Peter!" 

"No.  He  is  well.  He  sent  this  to  the  Fraulein 
Wells." 

"I  am  the  Fraulein  Wells." 

Marie  held  out  the  letter  and  staggered. 
Harmony  put  her  in  a  chair;  she  was  bewil 
dered,  almost  frightened.  Crisis  of  some  sort 
was  written  on  Marie's  face.  Harmony  felt 
very  young,  very  incapable.  The  other  girl 
refused  coffee,  would  not  even  go  into  the 
salon  until  Peter's  letter  had  been  read.  She 
was  a  fugitive,  a  criminal ;  the  Austrian  law 
is  severe  to  those  that  harbor  criminals.  Let 
Harmony  read :  — 

263 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"DEAR  HARRY, --Will  you  forgive  me  for 
this  and  spread  the  wings  of  your  splendid 
charity  over  this  poor  child?  Perhaps  I  am  doing 
wrong  in  sending  her  to  you,  but  just  now  it  is 
all  I  can  think  of.  If  she  wants  to  talk  let  her 
talk.  It  will  probably  help  her.  Also  feed  her, 
will  you?  And  if  she  cannot  sleep,  give  her  one 
of  the  blue  powders  I  fixed  for  Jimmy.  I'll  be 
back  late^to-day  if  I  can  make  it.  «  pETFR  " 

Harmony  glanced  up  from  the  letter.  Marie 
sat  drooping  in  her  chair.  Her  eyes  were  sunken 
in  her  head.  She  had  recognized  her  at  once, 
but  any  surprise  she  may  have  felt  at  finding 
Harmony  in  Peter's  apartment  was  sunk  in  a 
general  apathy,  a  compound  of  nervous  reaction 
and  fatigue.  During  the  long  hours  in  the  ex 
press  she  had  worn  herself  out  with  fright  and 
remorse:  there  was  nothing  left  now  but  ex 
haustion. 

Harmony  was  bewildered,  but  obedient.  She 
went  back  to  the  cold  kitchen  and  lighted  a  fire. 
She  made  Marie  as  comfortable  as  she  could  in 
the  salon,  and  then  went  into  her  room  to  dress. 
There  she  read  the  letter  again,  and  wondered 
if  Peter  had  gone  through  life  like  this,  picking 
up  waifs  and  strays  and  shouldering  their  bur 
dens  for  them.  Decidedly,  life  with  Peter  was 
full  of  surprises. 

264 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

She  remembered,  as  she  hurried  into  her 
clothes,  the  boys'  club  back  in  America  and  the 
spelling-matches.  Decidedly,  also,  Peter  was 
an  occupation,  a  state  of  mind,  a  career.  No 
musician,  hoping  for  a  career  of  her  own,  could 
possibly  marry  Peter. 

That  was  a  curious  morning  in  the  old  lodge 
of  Maria  Theresa,  while  Stewart  in  the  Pension 
Waldheim  struggled  back  to  consciousness, 
while  Peter  sat  beside  him  and  figured  on  an  old 
envelope  the  problem  of  dividing  among  four 
enough  money  to  support  one,  while  McLean 
ate  his  heart  out  in  wretchedness  in  his 
hotel. 

Marie  told  her  story  over  the  early  breakfast, 
sitting  with  her  thin  elbows  on  the  table,  her 
pointed  chin  in  her  palms. 

"And  now  I  am  sorry,"  she  finished.  "It 
has  done  no  good.  If  it  had  only  killed  her  — 
but  she  was  not  much  hurt.  I  saw  her  rise  and 
bend  over  him." 

Harmony  was  silent.  She  had  no  stock  of 
aphorisms  for  the  situation,  no  worldly  knowl 
edge,  only  pity. 

"Did  Peter  say  he  would  recover?" 

:'Yes.  They  will  both  recover  and  go  to 
America.  And  he  will  marry  her." 

Perhaps  Harmony  would  have  been  less  com 
fortable,  Marie  less  frank,  had  Marie  realized 

265 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

that  this  establishment  of  Peter's  was  not  on 
the  same  basis  as  Stewart's  had  been,  or  had 
Harmony  divined  her  thought. 

The  presence  of  the  boy  was  discovered 
by  his  waking.  Marie  was  taken  in  and 
presented.  She  looked  stupefied.  Certainly 
the  Americans  were  a  marvelous  people  —  to 
have  taken  into  their  house  and  their 
hearts  this  strange  child  —  if  he  were  strange. 
Marie's  suspicious  little  slum  mind  was  not 
certain. 

In  the  safety  and  comfort  of  the  little  apart 
ment  the  Viennese  expanded,  cheered.  She 
devoted  herself  to  the  boy,  telling  him  strange 
folk  tales,  singing  snatches  of  songs  for  him. 
The  youngster  took  a  liking  to  her  at  once. 
It  seemed  to  Harmony,  going  about  her  morn 
ing  routine,  that  Marie  was  her  solution  and 
Peter's. 

During  the  afternoon  she  took  a  package  to 
the  branch  post-office  and  mailed  it  by  parcel- 
post  to  the  Wollbadgasse.  On  the  way  she  met 
Mrs.  Boyer  face  to  face.  That  lady  looked 
severely  ahead,  and  Harmony  passed  her  with 
her  chin  well  up  and  the  eyes  of  a  wounded 
animal. 

McLean  sent  a  great  box  of  flowers  that  day. 
She  put  them,  for  lack  of  a  vase,  in  a  pitcher 
beside  Jimmy's  bed. 

266 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

At  dusk  a  telegram  came  to  say  that  Stewart 
was  better  and  that  Peter  was  on  his  way  down 
to  Vienna.  He  would  arrive  at  eight.  Time  was 
very  short  now  —  seconds  flashed  by,  minutes 
galloped.  Harmony  stewed  a  chicken  for  supper, 
and  creamed  the  breast  for  Jimmy.  She  fixed 
the  table,  flowers  in  the  center,  the  best  cloth, 
Peter's  favorite  cheese.  Six  o'clock,  six-thirty, 
seven;  Marie  was  telling  Jimmy  a  fairy  tale  and 
making  the  fairies  out  of  rosebuds.  The  study- 
lamp  was  lighted,  the  stove  glowing,  Peter's 
slippers  were  out,  his  old  smoking-coat,  his 
pipe. 

A  quarter  past  seven.  Peter  would  be  near 
Vienna  now  and  hungry.  If  he  could  only  eat 
his  supper  before  he  learned  —  but  that  was 
impossible.  He  would  come  in,  as  he  always  did, 
and  slam  the  outer  door,  and  open  it  again  to 
close  it  gently,  as  he  always  did,  and  then  he 
would  look  for  her,  going  from  room  to  room 
until  he  found  her  —  only  to-night  he  would 
not  find  her. 

She  did  not  say  good-bye  to  Jimmy.  She 
stood  in  the  doorway  and  said  a  little  prayer 
for  him.  Marie  had  made  the  flower  fairies  on 
needles,  and  they  stood  about  his  head  on  the 
pillow --pink  and  yellow  and  white  elves  with 
fluffy  skirts.  Then,  very  silently,  she  put  on 
her  hat  and  jacket  and  closed  the  outer  door 

267 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

behind  her.  In  the  courtyard  she  turned  and 
looked  up.  The  great  chandelier  in  the  salon 
was  not  lighted,  but  from  the  casement  windows 
shone  out  the  comfortable  glow  of  Peter's 
lamp. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

PETER  had  had  many  things  to  think  over 
during  the  ride  down  the  mountains.  He 
had  the  third-class  compartment  to  himself, 
and  sat  in  a  corner,  soft  hat  over  his  eyes.  Life, 
had  never  been  particularly  simple  to  Peter  — 
his  own  life,  yes;  a  matter  of  three  meals  a  day 

—  he  had  had  fewer  —  a  roof,  clothing.    But 
other   lives   had   always   touched   him   closely, 
and  at  the  contact  points  Peter  glowed,  fused, 
amalgamated.    Thus  he  had  been  many  people 

-  good,  indifferent,  bad,  but  all  needy.  Thus, 
also,  Peter  had  committed  vicarious  crimes, 
suffered  vicarious  illnesses,  starved,  died,  loved 

—  vicariously. 

And  now,  after  years  of  living  for  others, 
Peter  was  living  at  last  for  himself  —  and 
suffering. 

Not  that  he  understood  exactly  what  ailed 
him.  He  thought  he  was  tired,  which  was  true 
enough,  having  had  little  sleep  for  two  or  three 
nights.  Also  he  explained  to  himself  that  he 
was  smoking  too  much,  and  resolutely  --  lighted 
another  cigarette. 

Two  things  had  revealed  Peter's  condition 
269 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  himself:  McLean  had  said:  "You  are  crazy 
in  love  with  her."  McLean's  statement,  lacking 
subtlety,  had  had  a  certain  quality  of  direct 
ness.  Even  then  Peter,  utterly  miserable,  had 
refused  to  capitulate,  when  to  capitulate  would 
have  meant  the  surrender  of  the  house  in  the 
Siebensternstrasse.  And  the  absence  from  Har 
mony  had  shown  him  just  where  he  stood. 

He  was  in  love,  crazy  in  love.  Every  fiber  of 
his  long  body  glowed  with  it,  ached  with  it. 
And  every  atom  of  his  reason  told  him  what  mad 
folly  it  was,  this  love.  Even  if  Harmony  cared 

-  and  at  the  mere  thought  his  heart  pounded 

-  what  madness  for  her,  what  idiocy  for  him ! 
To  ask  her  to  accept  the  half  of  —  nothing,  to 
give  up  a  career  to  share  his  struggle  for  one, 
to  ask  her  to  bury  her  splendid  talent  and  her 
beauty  under  a  bushel  that  he  might  wave  aloft 
his  feeble  light! 

And  there  was  no  way  out,  no  royal  road  to 
fortune  by  the  route  he  had  chosen;  nothing 
but  grinding  work,  with  a  result  problematical 
and  years  ahead.  There  were  even  no  legacies 
to  expect,  he  thought  whimsically.  Peter  had 
known  a  chap  once,  struggling  along  in  gynecol- 
ogy,  who  had  had  a  fortune  left  him  by  a  G.  P., 
which  being  interpreted  is  Grateful  Patient. 
Peter's  patients  had  a  way  of  living,  and  when 
they  did  drop  out,  as  happened  now  and  then, 

270 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

had  also  a  way  of  leaving  Peter  an  unpaid 
bill  in  token  of  appreciation;  Peter  had  even 
occasionally  helped  to  bury  them,  by  way, 
he  defended  himself,  of  covering  up  his  mis 
takes. 

Peter,  sitting  back  in  his  corner,  allowed  the 
wonderful  scenery  to  slip  by  unnoticed.  He 
put  Harmony  the  Desirable  out  of  his  mind,  and 
took  to  calculating  on  a  scrap  of  paper  what 
could  be  done  for  Harmony  the  Musician.  He 
could  hold  out  for  three  months,  he  calculated, 
and  still  have  enough  to  send  Harmony  home 
and  to  get  home  himself  on  a  slow  boat.  The 
Canadian  lines  were  cheap.  If  Jimmy  lived 
perhaps  he  could  take  him  along:  if  not  — 

He  would  have  to  put  six  months'  work  in  the 
next  three.  That  was  not  so  hard.  He  had  got 
along  before  with  less  sleep,  and  thrived  on  it. 
Also  there  must  be  no  more  idle  evenings,  with 
Jimmy  in  the  salon  propped  in  a  chair  and 
Harmony  playing,  the  room  dark  save  for  the 
glow  from  the  stove  and  for  the  one  candle  at 
Harmony's  elbow. 

All  roads  lead  to  Rome.  Peter's  thoughts, 
having  traveled  in  a  circle,  were  back  again  to 
Harmony  the  Desirable  —  Harmony  playing 
in  the  firelight,  Harmony  flushed  over  the  brick 
stove,  Harmony  paring  potatoes  that  night  in 
the  kitchen  when  he  -  Harmony !  Harmony ! 

271 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Stewart  knew  all  about  the  accident  and  its 
cause.  Peter  had  surmised  as  much  when  the 
injured  man  failed  to  ask  for  Marie. 

He  tested  him  finally  by  bringing  Marie's 
name  into  the  conversation.  Stewart  ignored  it, 
accepted  her  absence,  refused  to  be  drawn. 

That  was  at  first.  During  the  day,  however, 
as  he  gained  strength,  he  grew  restless  and 
uneasy.  As  the  time  approached  for  Peter  to 
leave,  he  was  clearly  struggling  with  himself. 
The  landlady  had  agreed  to  care  for  him  and 
was  bustling  about  the  room.  During  one  of 
her  absences  he  turned  to  Peter. 

"I  suppose  Marie  has  n't  been  round?" 

"She  came  back  last  night." 
j" Did  she  tell  you?" 

"Yes,  poor  child." 

"She's  a  devil!"  Stewart  said,  and  lay  silent. 
Then:  "I  saw  her  shoot  that  thing  out  in  front 
of  us,  but  there  was  no  time  —  Where  is  she 
now?" 

"Marie?  I  sent  her  to  Vienna." 
«  Stewart  fell  back,  relieved,  not  even  curious. 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that!"  he  said.  "I  don't 
want  to  see  her  again.  I  'd  do  something  I  'd 
be  sorry  for.  The  kindest  thing  to  say  for  her  is 
that  she  was  not  sane." 

"No,"  said  Peter  gravely,  "she  was  hardly 
sane." 

272 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Stewart  caught  his  steady  gaze  and  glanced 
away.  For  him  Marie's  little  tragedy  had  been 
written  and  erased.  He  would  forget  it  mag 
nanimously.  He  had  divided  what  he  had  with 
her,  and  she  had  repaid  him  by  attempting  his 
life.  And  not  only  his  life,  but  Anita's.  Peter 
followed  his  line  of  reasoning  easily. 

"It's  quite  a  frequent  complication,  Stewart," 
he  said,  "but  every  man  to  whom  it  happens 
regards  himself  more  or  less  as  a  victim.  She 
fell  in  love  with  you,  that 's  all.  Her  conduct  is 
contrary  to  the  ethics  of  the  game,  but  she's 
been  playing  poor  cards  all  along." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"That  does  n't  matter,  does  it?" 

Stewart  had  lain  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 
No,  it  didn't  matter.  A  sense  of  great  relief 
overwhelmed  him.  Marie  was  gone,  frightened 
into  hiding.  It  was  as  if  a  band  that  had  been 
about  him  was  suddenly  loosed:  he  breathed 
deep,  he  threw  out  his  arms  and  laughed  from 
sheer  reaction.  Then,  catching  Peter's  not 
particularly  approving  eyes,  he  colored. 

"Good  Lord,  Peter!"  he  said,  "you  don't 
know  what  I  've  gone  through  with  that  little 
devil.  And  now  she 's  gone!"  He  glanced  round 
the  disordered  room,  where  bandages  and 
medicines  crowded  toilet  articles  on  the  dress 
ing-table,  where  one  of  Marie's  small  slippers 

273 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

still  lay  where  it  had  fallen  under  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  where  her  rosary  still  hung  over  the 
corner  of  the  table.  "Ring  for  the  maid,  Peter, 
will  you!  I  've  got  to  get  this  junk  out  of  here. 
Some  of  Anita's  people  may  come." 

During  that  afternoon  ride,  while  the  train 
clump-clumped  down  the  mountains,  Peter 
thought  of  all  this.  Some  of  Marie's  "junk" 
was  in  his  bag;  her  rosary  lay  in  his  breast 
pocket,  along  with  the  pin  he  had  sent  her  at 
Christmas.  Peter  happened  on  it,  still  in  its 
box,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  cried  over. 
He  had  brought  it  with  him.  He  admired  it 
very  much,  and  it  had  cost  money  he  could  ill 
afford  to  spend. 

It  was  late  when  the  train  drew  into  the  sta 
tion.  Peter,  encumbered  with  Marie's  luggage 
and  his  own,  lowered  his  window  and  added  his 
voice  to  the  chorus  of  plaintive  calls:  "Portier! 
Portier!"  they  shouted.  "Portier!"  bawled 
Peter. 

He  was  obliged  to  resort  to  the  extravagance 
of  a  taxicab.  Possibly  a  fiacre  would  have  done 
as  well,  but  it  cost  almost  as  much  and  was 
slower.  Moments  counted  now:  a  second  was 
an  hour,  an  hour  a  decade.  For  he  was  on  his 
way  to  Harmony.  Extravagance  became  reck 
lessness.  As  soon  die  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb! 
He  stopped  the  taxicab  and  bought  a  bunch  of 

274 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

violets,  stopped  again  and  bought  lilies  of  the 
valley  to  combine  with  the  violets,  went  out  of 
his  way  to  the  American  grocery  and  bought  a 
jar  of  preserved  fruit. 

By  that  time  he  was  laden.  The  jar  of  pre 
serves  hung  in  one  shabby  pocket,  Marie's 
rosary  dangled  from  another;  the  violets 
were  buttoned  under  his  overcoat  against  the 
cold. 

At  the  very  last  he  held  the  taxi  an  extra 
moment  and  darted  into  the  delicatessen  shop 
across  the  Siebensternstrasse.  From  there, 
standing  inside  the  doorway,  he  could  see  the 
lights  in  the  salon  across  the  way,  the  glow  of 
his  lamp,  the  flicker  that  was  the  fire.  Peter 
whistled,  stamped  his  cold  feet,  quite  neglected 
—  in  spite  of  repeated  warnings  from  Harmony 
-  to  watch  the  Herr  Schenkenkauf  er  weigh 
the  cheese,  accepted  without  a  glance  a  ten- 
Kronen  piece  with  a  hole  in  it. 

"And  how  is  the  child  to-day?"  asked  the 
Herr  Schenkenkaufer,  covering  the  defective 
gold  piece  with  conversation. 

"I  do  not  know;  I  have  been  away,"  said 
Peter.  He  almost  sang  it. 

"All  is  well  or  I  would  have  heard.  Wilhelm 
the  Portier  was  but  just  now  here." 

"All  well,  of  course,"  sang  Peter,  eyes  on  the 
comfortable  glow  of  his  lamp,  the  flicker  that 

275 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

was  the  fire.  "Auf  wiedersehen,  Herr  Schen- 
kenkaufer." 

"Auf  wiedersehen,  Herr  Doktor." 

Violets,  lilies-of-the-valley,  cheese,  rosary, 
luggage  —  thus  Peter  climbed  the  stairs.  The 
Portier  wished  to  assist  him,  but  Peter  declined. 
The  Portier  was  noisy.  There  was  to  be  a  mo 
ment  when  Peter,  having  admitted  himself  with 
extreme  caution,  would  present  himself  without 
so  much  as  a  creak  to  betray  him,  would  stand 
in  a  doorway  until  some  one,  Harmony  per 
haps —  ah,  Peter!  —  would  turn  and  see  him. 
She  had  a  way  of  putting  one  slender  hand  over 
her  heart  when  she  was  startled. 

Peter  put  down  the  jar  of  preserved  peaches 
outside.  It  was  to  be  a  second  surprise.  ALo 
he  put  down  the  flowers;  they  were  to  be  brought 
in  last  of  all.  One  surprise  after  another  is  a 
cumulative  happiness.  Peter  did  not  wish  to 
swallow  all  his  cake  in  one  bite. 

For  once  he  did  not  slam  the  outer  door, 
although  he  very  nearly  did,  and  only  caught  it 
at  the  cost  of  a  bruised  finger.  Inside  he  lis 
tened.  There  was  no  clatter  of  dishes,  no  scurry 
ing  back  and  forth  from  table  to  stove  in  the 
final  excitement  of  dishing  up.  There  was, 
however,  a  highly  agreeable  odor  of  stewing 
chicken,  a  crisp  smell  of  baking  biscuit. 

In  the  darkened  hall  Peter  had  to  pause  to 
276 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

steady  himself.  For  he  had  a  sudden  mad  im 
pulse  to  shout  Harmony's  name,  to  hold  out  his 
arms,  to  call  her  to  him  there  in  the  warm  dark 
ness,  and  when  she  had  come,  to  catch  her  to 
him,  to  tell  his  love  in  one  long  embrace,  his 
arms  about  her,  his  rough  cheek  against  her 
soft  one.  No  wonder  he  grew  somewhat  dizzy 
and  had  to  pull  himself  together. 

The  silence  rather  surprised  him,  until  he 
recalled  that  Harmony  was  probably  sewing 
in  the  salon,  as  she  did  sometimes  when 
dinner  was  ready  to  serve.  The  boy  was 
asleep,  no  doubt.  He  stole  along  on  tiptoe, 
hardly  breathing,  to  the  first  doorway,  which 
was  Jimmy's. 

Jimmy  was  asleep.  Round  him  were  the  pink 
and  yellow  and  white  flower  fairies  with  violet 
heads.  Peter  saw  them  and  smiled.  Then,  his 
eyes  growing  accustomed  to  the  light,  he  saw 
Marie,  face  down  on  the  floor,  her  head  on  her 
arms.  Still  as  she  was,  Peter  knew  she  was  not 
sleeping,  only  fighting  her  battle  over  again 
and  losing. 

Some  of  the  joyousness  of  his  return  fled  from 
Peter,  never  to  come  back.  The  two  silent 
figures  were  too  close  to  tragedy.  Peter,  with  a 
long  breath,  stole  past  the  door  and  on  to  the 
salon.  No  Harmony  there,  but  the  great  room 
was  warm  and  cheery.  The  table  was  drawn 

277 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

near  the  stove  and  laid  for  Abendessen.  The 
white  porcelain  coffee-pot  had  boiled  and 
extinguished  itself,  according  to  its  method, 
and  now  gently  steamed. 

On  to  the  kitchen.  Much  odor  of  food  here, 
two  candles  lighted  but  burning  low,  a  small 
platter  with  money  on  it,  quite  a  little  money 
—  almost  all  he  had  left  Harmony  when  he 
went  away. 

Peter  was  dazed  at  first.  Even  when  Marie, 
hastily  summoned,  had  discovered  that  Har 
mony's  clothing  was  gone,  when  a  search  of  the 
rooms  revealed  the  absence  of  her  violin  and 
her  music,  when  at  last  the  fact  stared  them, 
incontestable,  in  the  face,  Peter  refused  to 
accept  it.  He  sat  for  a  half-hour  or  even  more 
by  the  fire  in  the  salon,  obstinately  refusing  to 
believe  she  was  gone,  keeping  the  supper  warm 
against  her  return.  He  did  not  think  or  reason; 
he  sat  and  waited,  saying  nothing,  hardly  mov 
ing,  save  when  a  gust  of  wind  slammed  the 
garden  gate.  Then  he  was  all  alive,  sat  erect, 
ears  straining  for  her  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
outer  door. 

The  numbness  of  the  shock  passed  at  last, 
to  be  succeeded  by  alarm.  During  all  the  time 
that  followed,  that  condition  persisted,  fright, 
almost  terror.  Harmony  alone  in  the  city, 

278 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

helpless,  dependent,  poverty-stricken.  Har 
mony  seeking  employment  under  conditions 
Peter  knew  too  well.  But  with  his  alarm  came 
rage. 

Marie  had  never  seen  Peter  angry.  She 
shrank  from  this  gaunt  and  gray-faced  man  who 
raved  up  and  down  the  salon,  questioning  the 
frightened  Portier,  swearing  fierce  oaths,  bring 
ing  accusation  after  accusation  against  some 
unnamed  woman  to  whom  he  applied  epithets 
that  Marie's  English  luckily  did  not  compre 
hend.  Not  a  particularly  heroic  figure  was 
Peter  that  night :  a  frantic,  disheveled  individual, 
before  whom  the  Portier  cowered,  who  struggled 
back  to  sanity  through  a  berserk  haze  and  was 
liable  to  swift  relapses  into  fury  again. 

To  this  succeeded  at  last  the  mental  condi 
tion  that  was  to  be  Peter's  for  many  days, 
hopelessness  and  alarm  and  a  grim  determina 
tion  to  keep  on  searching. 

There  were  no  clues.  The  Portier  made 
inquiries  of  all  the  cabstands  in  the  neighbor 
hood.  Harmony  had  not  taken  a  cab.  The 
delicatessen  seller  had  seen  her  go  out  that 
afternoon  with  a  bundle  and  return  without 
it.  She  had  been  gone  only  an  hour  or  so.  That 
gave  Peter  a  ray  of  hope  that  she  might  have 
found  a  haven  in  the  neighborhood  —  until  he 
recalled  the  parcel-post. 

279 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

;  One  possibility  he  clung  to:  Mrs.  Boyer  had 
made  the  mischief,  but  she  had  also  offered  the 
girl  a  home.  She  might  be  at  the  Boyers'. 
Peter,  flinging  on  a  hat  and  without  his  overcoat, 
went  to  the  Boyers'.  Time  was  valuable,  and 
he  had  wasted  an  hour,  two  hours,  in  useless 
rage.  So  he  took  a  taxicab,  and  being  by  this 
time  utterly  reckless  of  cost  let  it  stand  while  he 
interviewed  the  Boyers. 

Boyer  himself,  partially  undressed,  opened 
the  door  to  his  ring.  Peter  was  past  explanation 
or  ceremonial. 

"Is  Harmony  here?"  he  demanded. 

"Harmony?" 

"Harmony  Wells.  She's  disappeared,  miss- 
ing." 

"Come  in,"  said  Boyer,  alive  to  the  strain 
in  Peter's  voice.  "I  don't  know,  I  haven't 
heard  anything.  I  '11  ask  Mrs.  Boyer." 

During  the  interval  it  took  for  a  whispered 
colloquy  in  the  bedroom,  and  for  Mrs.  Boyer 
to  don  her  flannel  wrapper,  Peter  suffered  the 
tortures  of  the  damned.  Whatever  Mrs.  Boyer 
had  meant  to  say  by  way  of  protest  at  the  in 
trusion  on  the  sacred  privacy  of  eleven  o'clock 
and  bedtime  died  in  her  throat.  Her  plump 
and  terraced  chin  shook  with  agitation,  perhaps 
with  guilt.  Peter,  however,  had  got  himself  in 
hand.  He  told  a  quiet  story;  Boyer  listened; 

280 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Mrs.  Boyer,  clutching  her  wrapper  about  her 
unstayed  figure,  listened. 

"I  thought,"  finished  Peter,  "that  since  you 
had  offered  her  a  refuge  —  from  me  —  she 
might  have  come  here." 

"I  offered  her  a  refuge  —  before  I  had  been 
to  the  Pension  Schwarz." 

"Ah!"  said  Peter  slowly.  "And  what  about 
the  Pension  Schwarz?" 

"Need  you  ask?  I  learned  that  you  were  all 
put  out  there.  I  am  obliged  to  say,  Dr.  Byrne, 
that  under  the  circumstances  had  the  girl  come 
here  I  could  hardly  -  Frank,  I  will  speak !  — 
I  could  hardly  have  taken  her  in." 

Peter  went  white  and  ducked  as  from  a 
physical  blow,  stumbling  out  into  the  hall  again. 
There  he  thought  of  something  to  say  in  reply, 
repudiation,  thought  better  of  it,  started  down 
the  stairs. 

Boyer  followed  him  helplessly.  At  the  street 
door,  however,  he  put  his  hand  on  Peter's 
shoulder.  "You  know,  old  man,  I  don't  believe 
that.  These  women  - 

"I  know,"  said  Peter  simply.  "Thank  you. 
Good-night." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HARMONY'S  only  thought  had  been  flight, 
from  Peter,  from  McLean,  from  Mrs. 
Boyer.  She  had  devoted  all  her  energies  to  los 
ing  herself,  to  cutting  the  threads  that  bound 
her  to  the  life  in  the  Siebensternstrasse.  She 
had  drawn  all  her  money,  as  Peter  discovered 
later.  The  discovery  caused  him  even  more 
acute  anxiety.  The  city  was  full  of  thieves; 
poverty  and  its  companion,  crime,  lurked  on 
every  shadowy  staircase  of  the  barracklike 
houses,  or  peered,  red-eyed,  from  every  alley 
way. 

And  into  this  city  of  contrasts  —  of  gray 
women  of  the  night  hugging  gratings  for  warmth 
and  accosting  passers-by  with  loathsome  ges 
tures,  of  smug  civilians  hiding  sensuous  mouths 
under  great  mustaches,  of  dapper  soldiers  to 
whom  the  young  girl  unattended  was  potential 
prey,  into  this  night  city  of  terror,  this  day  city 
of  frightful  contrasts,  ermine  rubbing  elbows 
with  frost-nipped  flesh,  destitution  sauntering 
along  the  fashionable  Prater  for  lack  of  shelter, 
gilt  wheels  of  royalty  and  yellow  wheels  of 

282 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

courtesans  —  Harmony  had  ventured  alone  for 
the  second  time. 

And  this  time  there  was  no  Peter  Byrne  to 
accost  her  cheerily  in  the  twilight  and  win  her 
by  sheer  friendliness.  She  was  alone.  Her  funds 
were  lower,  much  lower.  And  something  else 
had  gone  —  her  faith.  Mrs.  Boyer  had  seen 
to  that.  In  the  autumn  Harmony  had  faced  the 
city  clear-eyed  and  unafraid;  now  she  feared  it, 
met  it  with  averted  eyes,  alas!  understood  it. 

It  was  not  the  Harmony  who  had  bade  a 
brave  farewell  to  Scatchy  and  the  Big  Soprano  in 
the  station  who  fled  to  her  refuge  on  the  upper 
floor  of  the  house  in  the  Wollbadgasse.  This  was 
a  hunted  creature,  alternately  flushed  and  pale, 
who  locked  her  door  behind  her  before  she  took 
off  her  hat,  and  who,  having  taken  off  her  hat 
and  surveyed  her  hiding-place  with  tragic  eyes, 
fell  suddenly  to  trembling,  alone  there  in  the 
gaslight. 

She  had  had  no  plans  beyond  flight.  She 
had  meant,  once  alone,  to  think  the  thing  out. 
But  the  room  was  cold,  she  had  had  nothing  to 
eat,  and  the  single  slovenly  maid  was  a  Hun 
garian  and  spoke  no  German.  The  dressmaker 
had  gone  to  the  Ronacher.  Harmony  did  not 
know  where  to  find  a  restaurant,  was  afraid  to 
trust  herself  to  the  streets  alone.  She  went 
to  bed  supperless,  with  a  tiny  picture  of  Peter 

283 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  Jimmy  and  the  wooden  sentry  under  her 
cheek. 

The  pigeons,  cooing  on  the  window-sill, 
wakened  her  early.  She  was  confused  at  first, 
got  up  to  see  if  Jimmy  had  thrown  off  his  blan 
kets,  and  wakened  to  full  consciousness  with  the 
sickening  realization  that  Jimmy  was  not  there. 

The  dressmaker,  whose  name  was  Monia 
Reiff,  slept  late  after  her  evening  out.  Har 
mony,  collapsing  with  hunger  and  faintness, 
waited  as  long  as  she  could.  Then  she  put  on 
her  things  desperately  and  ventured  out.  Surely 
at  this  hour  Peter  would  not  be  searching,  and 
even  if  he  were  he  would  never  think  of  the  six 
teenth  district.  He  would  make  inquiries,  of 
course  —  the  Pension  Schwarz,  Boyers',  the 
master's. 

The  breakfast  brought  back  her  strength 
and  the  morning  air  gave  her  confidence.  The 
district,  too,  was  less  formidable  than  the  neigh 
borhood  of  the  Karntnerstrasse  and  the  Graben. 
The  shops  were  smaller.  The  windows  exhibited 
cheaper  goods.  There  was  a  sort  of  family 
atmosphere  about  many  of  them;  the  head  of 
the  establishment  in  the  doorway,  the  wife  at 
the  cashier's  desk,  daughters,  cousins,  nieces 
behind  the  wooden  counters.  The  shopkeepers 
were  approachable,  instead  of  familiar.  Har 
mony  met  no  rebuffs,  was  respectfully  greeted 

284 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  cheerfully  listened  to.  In  many  cases  the 
application  ended  in  a  general  consultation, 
shopkeeper,  wife,  daughters,  nieces,  slim  clerks 
with  tiny  mustaches.  She  got  addresses,  fol 
lowed  them  up,  more  consultations,  more  ad 
dresses,  but  no  work.  The  reason  dawned  on 
her  after  a  day  of  tramping,  during  which  she 
kept  carefully  away  from  that  part  of  the  city 
where  Peter  might  be  searching  for  her. 

The  fact  was,  of  course,  that  her  knowledge 
of  English  was  her  sole  asset  as  a  clerk.  And 
there  were  few  English  and  no  tourists  in  the 
sixteenth  district.  She  was  marketing  a  com 
modity  for  which  there  was  no  demand. 

She  lunched  at  a  Konditorei,  more  to  rest 
her  tired  body  than  because  she  needed  food. 
The  afternoon  was  as  the  morning.  At  six 
o'clock,  long  after  the  midwinter  darkness  had 
fallen,  she  stumbled  back  to  the  Wollbadgasse 
and  up  the  whitewashed  staircase. 

She  had  a  shock  at  the  second  landing.  A 
man  had  stepped  into  the  angle  to  let  her  pass. 
A  gasjet  flared  over  his  head,  and  she  recognized 
the  short  heavy  figure  and  ardent  eyes  of 
Georgiev.  She  had  her  veil  down  luckily,  and 
he  gave  no  sign  of  recognition.  She  passed 
on,  and  she  heard  him  a  second  later  descending. 
But  there  had  been  something  reminiscent  after 
all  in  her  figure  and  carriage.  The  little  Georgiev 

285 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

paused,  halfway  down,  and  thought  a  moment. 
It  was  impossible,  of  course.  All  women  re 
minded  him  of  the  American.  Had  he  not,  only 
the  day  before,  followed  for  two  city  blocks  a 
woman  old  enough  to  be  his  mother,  merely 
because  she  carried  a  violin  case?  But  there 
was  something  about  the  girl  he  had  just  passed 
—  Bah! 

A  bad  week  for  Harmony  followed,  a  week  of 
weary  days  and  restless  nights  when  she  slept 
only  to  dream  of  Peter  —  of  his  hurt  and  in 
credulous  eyes  when  he  found  she  had  gone; 
of  Jimmy  —  that  he  needed  her,  was  worse, 
was  dying.  More  than  once  she  heard  him 
sobbing  and  wakened  to  the  cooing  of  the  pi 
geons  on  the  window-sill.  She  grew  thin  and 
sunken-eyed;  took  to  dividing  her  small  hoard, 
half  of  it  with  her,  half  under  the  carpet,  so 
that  in  case  of  accident  all  would  not  be  gone. 

This,  as  it  happened,  was  serious.  One  day, 
the  sixth,  she  came  back  wet  to  the  skin  from 
an  all-day  rain,  to  find  that  the  carpet  bank 
had  been  looted.  There  was  no  clue.  The  stolid 
Hungarian,  startled  out  of  her  lethargy,  pro 
tested  innocence;  the  little  dressmaker,  who 
seemed  honest  and  friendly,  wept  in  sheer 
sympathy.  The  fact  remained  —  half  the  small 
hoard  was  gone. 

286 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Two  days  more,  a  Sunday  and  a  Monday. 
On  Sunday  Harmony  played,  and  Georgiev 
in  the  room  below,  translating  into  cipher  a 
recent  conference  between  the  Austrian  Minister 
of  War  and  the  German  Ambassador,  put  aside 
his  work  and  listened.  She  played,  as  once 
before  she  had  played  when  life  seemed  sad  and 
tragic,  the  "  Humoresque."  Georgiev,  hands 
behind  his  head  and  eyes  upturned,  was  back 
in  the  Pension  Schwarz  that  night  months  ago 
when  Harmony  played  the  "Humoresque"  and 
Peter  stooped  outside  her  door.  The  little  Bul 
garian  sighed  and  dreamed. 

Harmony,  a  little  sadder,  a  little  more  forlorn 
each  day,  pursued  her  hopeless  quest.  She 
ventured  into  the  heart  of  the  Stadt  and  paid  a 
part  of  her  remaining  money  to  an  employment 
bureau,  to  teach  English  or  violin,  whichever 
offered,  or  even  both.  After  she  had  paid  they 
told  her  it  would  be  difficult,  almost  impossible, 
without  references.  She  had  another  narrow 
escape  as  she  was  leaving.  She  almost  collided 
with  Olga,  the  chambermaid,  who,  having 
clashed  for  the  last  time  with  Katrina,  was  seek 
ing  new  employment.  On  another  occasion  she 
saw  Marie  in  the  crowd  and  was  obsessed  with 
a  longing  to  call  to  her,  to  ask  for  Peter,  for 
Jimmy.  That  meeting  took  the  heart  out  of  the 
girl.  Marie  was  white  and  weary  —  perhaps  the 

287' 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

boy  was  worse.  Perhaps  Peter  —  Her  heart 
contracted.  But  that  was  absurd,  of  course; 
Peter  was  always  well  and  strong. 

Two  things  occurred  that  week,  one  un 
expected,  the  other  inevitable.  The  unexpected 
occurrence  was  that  Monia  Reiff,  finding  Har 
mony  being  pressed  for  work,  offered  the  girl  a 
situation.  The  wage  was  small,  but  she  could 
live  on  it. 

The  inevitable  was  that  she  met  Georgiev 
on  the  stairs  without  her  veil. 

It  was  the  first  day  in  the  workroom.  The 
apprentices  were  carrying  home  boxes  for  a 
ball  that  night.  Thread  was  needed,  and 
quickly.  Harmony,  who  did  odds  and  ends  of 
sewing,  was  most  easily  spared.  She  slipped  on 
her  jacket  and  hat  and  ran  down  to  the  shop 
near  by. 

It  was  on  the  return  that  she  met  Georgiev 
coming  down.  The  afternoon  was  dark  and  the 
staircase  unlighted.  In  the  gloom  one  face  was 
as  another.  Georgiev,  listening  intently,  hear 
ing  footsteps,  drew  back  into  the  embrasure  of 
a  window  and  waited.  His  swarthy  face  was 
tense,  expectant.  As  the  steps  drew  near,  were 
light  feminine  instead  of  stealthy,  the  little 
spy  relaxed  somewhat.  But  still  he  waited, 
crouched. 

It  was  a  second  before  he  recognized  Har- 
288 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

mony,  another  instant  before  he  realized  his 
good  fortune.  She  had  almost  passed.  He  put 
out  an  unsteady  hand. 

"Fraulein!" 

"Herr  Georgiev!" 

The  little  Bulgarian  was  profoundly  stirred. 
His  fervid  eyes  gleamed.  He  struggled  against 
the  barrier  of  language,  broke  out  in  passionate 
Bulgar,  switched  to  German  punctuated  with 
an  English  word  here  and  there.  Made  intelli 
gible,  it  was  that  he  had  found  her  at  last. 
Harmony  held  her  spools  of  thread  and  waited 
for  the  storm  of  languages  to  subside.  Then :  — 

"But  you  are  not  to  say  you  have  seen  me, 
Herr  Georgiev." 

"No?" 

Harmony  colored. 

"I  am  —  am  hiding,"  she  explained.  "Some 
thing  very  uncomfortable  happened  and  I 
came  here.  Please  don't  say  you  have  seen 
me." 

Georgiev  was  puzzled  at  first.  She  had  to 
explain  very  slowly,  with  his  ardent  eyes  on  her. 
But  he  understood  at  last  and  agreed  of  course. 
His  incredulity  was  turning  to  certainty.  Har 
mony  had  actually  been  in  the  same  building 
with  him  while  he  sought  her  everywhere  else. 

"Then,"  he  said  at  last,  "it  was  you  who 
played  Sunday." 

289 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  surely." 

She  made  a  move  to  pass  him,  but  he  held  out 
an  imploring  hand. 

"Fraulein,  I  may  see  you  sometimes?" 

"We  shall  meet  again,  of  course." 

"Fraulein,  —  with  all  respect,  —  sometime 
perhaps  you  will  walk  out  with  me?" 

"I  am  very  busy  all  day." 

"At  night,  then?  For  the  exercise?  I,  with 
all  respect,  Fraulein!" 

Harmony  was  touched. 

"Sometime,"  she  consented.  And  then  im 
pulsively:  "I  am  very  lonely,  Herr  Georgiev." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  the  little  Bul 
garian  bent  over  it  and  kissed  it  reverently.  The 
Herr  Georgiev's  father  was  a  nobleman  in  his 
own  country,  and  all  the  little  spy's  training 
had  been  to  make  of  a  girl  in  Harmony's  situa 
tion  lawful  prey.  But  in  the  spy's  glowing  heart 
there  was  nothing  for  Harmony  to  fear.  She 
knew  it.  He  stood,  hat  in  hand,  while  she  went 
up  the  staircase.  Then :  — 

"  Fraulein ! "  anxiously. 

"Yes?" 

"Was  there  below  at  the  entrance  a  tall  man 
in  a  green  velours  hat?" 

"I  saw  no  one  there." 

"I  thank  you,  Fraulein." 

He  watched  her  slender  figure  ascend,  lose 
290 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

itself  in  the  shadows,  listened  until  she  reached 
the  upper  floors.  Then  with  a  sigh  he  clapped 
his  hat  on  his  head  and  made  his  cautious  way 
down  to  the  street.  There  was  no  man  in  a 
green  velours  hat  below,  but  the  little  spy  had 
an  uneasy  feeling  that  eyes  watched  him,  never 
theless.  Life  was  growing  complicated  for  the 
Herr  Georgiev. 

Life  was  pressing  very  close  to  Harmony  also 
in  those  days,  a  life  she  had  never  touched  before. 
She  discovered,  after  a  day  or  two  in  the  work 
room,  that  Monia  Reiff's  business  lay  almost 
altogether  among  the  demi-monde.  The  sewing- 
girls,  of  Marie's  type  many  of  them,  found  in 
the  customers  endless  topics  of  conversation. 
Some  things  Harmony  was  spared,  much  of  the 
talk  being  in  dialect.  But  a  great  deal  of  it  she 
understood,  and  she  learned  much  that  was  not 
spoken.  They  talked  freely  of  the  women,  their 
clothes,  and  they  talked  a  great  deal  about  a 
newcomer,  an  American  dancer,  for  whom  Monia 
was  making  an  elaborate  outfit.  The  American's 
name  was  Lillian  Le  Grande.  She  was  dancing 
at  one  of  the  variety  theaters. 

Harmony  was  working  on  a  costume  for  the 
Le  Grande  woman  —  a  gold  brocade  slashed 
to  the  knee  at  one  side  and  with  a  fragment  of 
bodice  made  of  gilt  tissue.  On  the  day  after 
her  encounter  with  Georgiev  she  met  her. 

291 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

There  was  a  dispute  over  the  gown,  something 
about  the  draping.  Monia,  flushed  with  irri 
tation,  came  to  the  workroom  door  and  glanced 
over  the  girls.  She  singled  out  Harmony 
finally  and  called  her. 

"Come  and  put  on  the  American's  gown," 
she  ordered.  "She  wishes  —  Heaven  knows 
what  she  wishes!" 

Harmony  went  unwillingly.  Nothing  she 
had  heard  of  the  Fraulein  Le  Grande  had  pre 
possessed  her.  Her  uneasiness  was  increased 
when  she  found  herself  obliged  to  shed  her  gown 
and  to  stand  for  one  terrible  moment  before 
the  little  dressmaker's  amused  eyes. 

"Thou  art  very  lovely,  very  chic,"  said  Monia. 
The  dress  added  to  rather  than  relieved  Har 
mony's  discomfiture.  She  donned  it  in  one  of 
the  fitting-rooms,  made  by  the  simple  expedient 
of  curtaining  off  a  corner  of  the  large  reception 
room.  The  slashed  skirt  embarrassed  her;  the 
low  cut  made  her  shrink.  Monia  was  frankly 
entranced.  Above  the  gold  tissue  of  the  bodice 
rose  Harmony's  exquisite  shoulders.  Her  hair 
was  gold;  even  her  eyes  looked  golden.  The 
dressmaker,  who  worshiped  beauty,  gave  a  pull 
here,  a  pat  there.  If  only  all  women  were  so 
beautiful  in  the  things  she  made! 

She  had  an  eye  for  the  theatrical  also.  She 
posed  Harmony  behind  the  curtain,  arranged 

292 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

lights,  drew  down  the  chiffon  so  that  a  bit  more 
of  the  girl's  rounded  bosom  was  revealed. 
Then  she  drew  the  curtain  aside  and  stood 
smiling. 

Le  Grande  paid  the  picture  the  tribute  of  a 
second's  silence.  Then :  — 

"Exquisite!"  she  said  in  English.  Then  in 
halting  German:  "Do  not  change  a  line.  It 
is  perfect." 

Harmony  must  walk  in  the  gown,  turn,  sit. 
Once  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  herself  and  was 
startled.  She  had  been  wearing  black  for  so 
long,  and  now  this  radiant  golden  creature  was 
herself.  She  was  enchanted  and  abashed.  The 
slash  in  the  skirt  troubled  her:  her  slender  leg 
had  a  way  of  revealing  itself. 

The  ordeal  was  over  at  last.  The  dancer 
was  pleased.  She  ordered  another  gown.  Har 
mony,  behind  the  curtain,  slipped  out  of  the 
dress  and  into  her  own  shabby  frock.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  curtain  the  dancer  was  talking. 
Her  voice  was  loud,  but  rather  agreeable.  She 
smoked  a  cigarette.  Scraps  of  chatter  came  to 
Harmony,  and  once  a  laugh. 

"That  is  too  pink  —  something  more  deli 
cate." 

"Here  is  a  shade;  hold  it  to  your  cheek." 

"I  am  a  bad  color.  I  did  not  sleep  last  night." 

"Still  no  news,  Fraulein?" 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"None.  He  has  disappeared  utterly.  That 
is  n't  so  bad,  is  it?  I  could  use  more  rouge." 

"It  is  being  much  worn.  It  is  strange,  is  it 
not,  that  a  child  could  be  stolen  from  the  hos 
pital  and  leave  no  sign!" 

The  dancer  laughed  a  mirthless  laugh.  Her 
voice  changed,  became  nasal,  full  of  venom. 

"Oh,  they  know  well  enough,"  she  snapped. 
"Those  nurses  know,  and  there's  a  pig  of  a 
red-bearded  doctor  —  I  'd  like  to  poison  him. 
Separating  mother  and  child !  I  'm  going  to  find 
him,  if  only  to  show  them  they  are  not  so  smart 
after  all." 

In  her  anger  she  had  lapsed  into  English. 
Harmony,  behind  her  curtain,  had  clutched  at 
her  heart.  Jimmy's  mother! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

JIMMY  was  not  so  well,  although  Harmony's 
flight  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  relapse. 
He  had  found  Marie  a  slavishly  devoted  sub 
stitute,  and  besides  Peter  had  indicated  that 
Harmony's  absence  was  purely  temporary.  But 
the  breaking-up  was  inevitable.  All  'day  long 
the  child  lay  in  the  white  bed,  apathetic  but 
sleepless.  In  vain  Marie  made  flower  fairies  for 
his  pillow,  in  vain  the  little  mice,  now  quite 
tame,  played  hide-and-seek  over  the  bed,  in 
vain  Peter  paused  long  enough  in  his  frantic 
search  for  Harmony  to  buy  colored  postcards 
and  bring  them  to  him. 

He  was  contented  enough;  he  did  not  suffer 
at  all;  and  he  had  no  apprehension  of  what  was 
coming.  He  asked  for  nothing,  tried  obediently 
to  eat,  liked  to  have  Marie  in  the  room.  But 
he  did  not  beg  to  be  taken  into  the  salon,  as 
he  once  had  done.  There  was  a  sort  of  mental 
confusion  also.  He  liked  Marie  to  read  his 
father's  letters;  but  as  he  grew  weaker  the  occa 
sional  confusing  of  Peter  with  his  dead  father 
became  a  fixed  idea.  Peter  was  Daddy. 

Peter  took  care  of  him  at  night.  He  had 
295 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

moved  into  Harmony's  adjacent  room  and 
dressed  there.  But  he  had  never  slept  in  the 
bed.  At  night  he  put  on  his  shabby  dressing- 
gown  and  worn  slippers  and  lay  on  a  haircloth 
sofa  at  the  foot  of  Jimmy's  bed  —  lay  but  hardly 
slept,  so  afraid  was  he  that  the  slender  thread 
of  life  might  snap  when  it  was  drawn  out  to 
its  slenderest  during  the  darkest  hours  before 
the  dawn.  More  than  once  in  every  night  Peter 
rose  and  stood,  hardly  breathing,  with  the  tiny 
lamp  in  his  hand,  watching  for  the  rise  and  fall 
of  the  boy's  thin  little  chest.  Peter  grew  old 
these  days.  He  turned  gray  over  the  ears  and 
developed  lines  about  his  mouth  that  never 
left  him  again.  He  felt  gray  and  old,  and  some 
times  bitter  and  hard  also.  The  boy's  condition 
could  not  be  helped:  it  was  inevitable,  hopeless. 
But  the  thing  that  was  eating  his  heart  out  had 
been  unnecessary  and  cruel. 

Where  was  Harmony?  When  it  stormed,  as  it 
did  almost  steadily,  he  wondered  how  she  was 
sheltered;  when  the  occasional  sun  shone  he 
hoped  it  was  bringing  her  a  bit  of  cheer.  Now 
and  then,  in  the  night,  when  the  lamp  burned 
low  and  gusts  of  wind  shook  the  old  house, 
fearful  thoughts  came  to  him  —  the  canal,  with 
its  filthy  depths.  Daylight  brought  reason, 
however.  Harmony  -had  been  too  rational,  too 
sane  for  such  an  end. 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

McLean  was  Peter's  great  support  in  those 
terrible  days.  He  was  young  and  hopeful.  Also 
he  had  money.  Peter  could  not  afford  to  grease 
the  machinery  of  the  police  service;  McLean 
could  and  did.  In  Berlin  Harmony  could  not 
have  remained  hidden  for  two  days.  In  Vienna, 
however,  it  was  different.  Returns  were  made 
to  the  department,  but  irregularly.  An  Ameri 
can  music  student  was  missing.  There  were 
thousands  of  American  music  students  in  the 
city:  one  fell  over  them  in  the  coffee-houses. 
McLean  offered  a  reward  and  followed  up  in 
numerable  music  students. 

The  alternating  hope  and  despair  was  most 
trying.  Peter  became  old  and  haggard;  the  boy 
grew  thin  and  white.  But  there  was  this  dif 
ference,  that  with  Peter  the  strain  was  cumu 
lative,  hour  on  hour,  day  on  day.  With  McLean 
each  night  found  him  worn  and  exhausted,  but 
each  following  morning  he  went  to  work  with 
renewed  strength  and  energy.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  the  iron  had  not  struck  so  deep  into  his 
soul.  With  Peter  it  was  a  life-and-death  matter. 

Clinics  and  lectures  had  begun  again,  but  he 
had  no  heart  for  work.  The  little  household 
went  on  methodically.  Marie  remained;  there 
had  seemed  nothing  else  to  do.  She  cooked 
Peter's  food  —  what  little  he  would  eat;  she 
nursed  Jimmy  while  Peter  was  out  on  the  long 

297 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

search;  and  she  kept  the  apartment  neat.  She 
was  never  intrusive,  never  talkative.  Indeed, 
she  seemed  to  have  lapsed  into  definite  silence. 
She  deferred  absolutely  to  Peter,  adored  him, 
indeed,  from  afar.  She  never  ate  with  him,  in 
spite  of  his  protests. 

The  little  apartment  was  very  quiet.  Where 
formerly  had  been  music  and  Harmony's  soft 
laughter,  where  Anna  Gates  had  been  wont  to 
argue  with  Peter  in  loud,  incisive  tones,  where 
even  the  prisms  of  the  chandelier  had  once 
vibrated  in  response  to  Harmony's  violin,  al 
most  absolute  silence  now  reigned.  Even  the 
gate,  having  been  repaired,  no  longer  creaked,, 
and  the  loud  altercations  between  the  Portier 
and  his  wife  had  been  silenced  out  of  deference 
to  the  sick  child. 

On  the  day  that  Harmony,  in  the  gold  dress, 
had  discovered  Jimmy's  mother  in  the  American 
dancer  Peter  had  had  an  unusually  bad  day. 
McLean  had  sent  him  a  note  by  messenger  early 
in  the  morning,  to  the  effect  that  a  young  girl 
answering  Harmony's  description  had  been 
seen  in  the  park  at  Schonbrunn  and  traced  to 
an  apartment  near  by. 

Harmony  had  liked  Schonbrunn,  and  it 
seemed  possible.  They  had  gone  out  together, 
McLean  optimistic,  Peter  afraid  to  hope.  And 
it  had  been  as  he  feared  —  a  pretty  little  violin 

^298 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

student,  indeed,  who  had  been  washing  her  hair, 
and  only  opened  the  door  an  inch  or  two. 
McLean  made  a  lame  apology,  Peter  too  sick 
with  disappointment  to  speak.  Then  back  to 
the  city  again. 

He  had  taken  to  making  a  daily  round,  to 
the  master's,  to  the  Frau  Professor  Bergmeis- 
ter's,  along  the  Graben  and  the  Karntnerstrasse, 
ending  up  at  the  Doctors'  Club  in  the  faint 
hope  of  a  letter.  Wrath  still  smouldered  deep 
in  Peter;  he  would  not  enter  a  room  at  the  club 
if  Mrs.  Boyer  sat  within.  He  had  had  a  long 
hour  with  Dr.  Jennings,  and  left  that  cheerful 
person  writhing  in  abasement.  And  he  had  held 
a  stormy  interview  with  the  Frau  Schwarz, 
which  left  her  humble  for  a  week,  and  exceed 
ingly  nervous,  being  of  the  impression  from 
Peter's  manner  that  in  the  event  of  Harmony 
not  turning  up  an  American  gunboat  would 
sail  up  the  right  arm  of  the  Danube  and  bom 
bard  the  Pension  Schwarz. 

Schonbrunn  having  failed  them,  McLean  and 
Peter  went  back  to  the  city  in  the  street-car, 
neither  one  saying  much.  Even  McLean's 
elasticity  was  deserting  him.  His  eyes,  from 
much  peering  into  crowds,  had  taken  on  a 
strained,  concentrated  look. 

Peter  was  shabbier  than  ever  beside  the  other 
man's  ultra-fashionable  dress.  He  sat,  bent 

299 


-The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

forward,  his  long  arms  dangling  between  his 
knees,  his  head  down.  Their  common  trouble 
had  drawn  the  two  together,  or  had  drawn 
McLean  close  to  Peter,  as  if  he  recognized  that 
there  were  degrees  in  grief  and  that  Peter  had 
received  almost  a  death-wound.  His  old  rage 
at  Peter  had  died.  Harmony's  flight  had  proved 
the  situation  as  no  amount  of  protestation  would 
have  done.  The  thing  now  was  to  find  the  girl; 
then  he  and  Peter  would  start  even,  and  the 
battle  to  the  best  man. 

They  had  the  car  almost  to  themselves.  Peter 
had  not  spoken  since  he  sat  down.  McLean 
was  busy  over  a  notebook,  in  which  he  jotted 
down  from  day  to  day  such  details  of  their 
search  as  might  be  worth  keeping.  Now  and 
then  he  glanced  at  Peter  as  if  he  wished  to  say 
something,  hesitated,  fell  to  work  again  over 
the  notebook.  Finally  he  ventured. 

"How's  the  boy?" 

"Not  so  well  to-day.  I  'm  having  a  couple  of 
men  in  to  see  him  to-night.  He  does  n't  sleep." 

"Do  you  sleep?" 

"Not  much.    He's  on  my  mind,  of  course." 

That  and  other  things,  Peter. 

"Don't  you  think  —  wouldn't  it  be  better 
to  have  a  nurse.  You  can't  go  like  this  all  day 
and  be  up  all  night,  you  know.  And  Marie  has 
him  most  of  the  day."  McLean,  of  course,  had 

300 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

known  Marie  before.   "The  boy  ought  to  have  a 
nurse,  I  think." 

"He  does  n't  move  without  my  hearing  him." 

"That's  an  argument  for  me.  Do  you  want 
to  get  sick?" 

Peter  turned  a  white  face  toward  McLean, 
a  face  in  which  exasperation  struggled  with 
fatigue. 

"Good  Lord,  boy,"  he  rasped,  "don't  you 
suppose  I  'd  have  a  nurse  if  I  could  afford  it?" 

"  Would  you  let  me  help?  I  'd  like  to  do  some 
thing.  I  'm  a  useless  cub  in  a  sick-room,  but  I 
could  do  that.  Who  's  the  woman  he  liked  in 
the  hospital?" 

"  Nurse  Elisabet.  I  don't  know,  Mac.  There's 
no  reason  why  I  should  n't  let  you  help,  I  sup 
pose.  It  hurts,  of  course,  but  —  if  he  would  be 
happier  — " 

"That 's  settled,  then,"  said  McLean.  "Nurse 
Elisabet,  if  she  can  come.  And  —  look  here,  old 
man.  I  've  been  trying  to  say  this  for  a  week  and 
have  n't  had  the  nerve.  Let  me  help  you  out  for 
a  while.  You  can  send  it  back  when  you  get  it, 
any  time,  a  year  or  ten  years.  I  '11  not  miss  it." 

But  Peter  refused.  He  tempered  the  refusal 
in  his  kindly  way. 

"I  can't  take  anything  now,"  he  said.  "But 
I  '11  remember  it,  and  if  things  get  very  bad  I  '11 
come  to  you.  It  is  n't  costing  much  to  live. 

301 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Marie  is  a  good  manager,  almost  as  good  as  — 
Harmony  was."  This  with  difficulty.  He  found 
it  always  hard  to  speak  of  Harmony.  His 
throat  seemed  to  close  on  the  name. 

That  was  the  best  McLean  could  do,  but  he 
made  a  mental  reservation  to  see  Marie  that 
night  and  slip  her  a  little  money.  Peter  need 
never  know,  would  never  notice. 

At  a  cross-street  the  car  stopped,  and  the 
little  Bulgarian,  Georgiev,  got  on.  He  inspected 
the  car  carefully  before  he  came  in  from  the 
platform,  and  sat  down  unobtrusively  in  a 
corner.  Things  were  not  going  well  with  him 
either.  His  small  black  eyes  darted  from  face 
to  face  suspiciously,  until  they  came  to  a  rest 
on  Peter. 

It  was  Georgiev's  business  to  read  men. 
Quickly  he  put  together  the  bits  he  had  gathered 
from  Harmony  on  the  staircase,  added  to  them 
Peter's  despondent  attitude,  his  strained  face, 
the  abstraction  which  required  a  touch  on  the 
arm  from  his  companion  when  they  reached 
their  destination,  recalled  Peter  outside  the  door 
of  Harmony's  room  in  the  Pension  Schwarz  — 
and  built  him  a  little  story  that  was  not  far 
from  the  truth. 

Peter  left  the  car  without  seeing  him.  It  was 
the  hour  of  the  promenade,  when  the  Ring  and 
the  larger  business  streets  were  full  of  people, 

302 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

when  Demel's  was  thronged  with  pretty  women 
eating  American  ices,  with  military  men  drink 
ing  tea  and  nibbling  Austrian  pastry,  the  hour 
when  the  flower  women  along  the  Stephansplatz 
did  a  rousing  business  in  roses,  when  sterile 
women  burned  candles  before  the  Madonna  in 
the  Cathedral,  when  the  lottery  did  the  record 
business  of  the  day. 

Jt  was  Peter's  forlorn  hope  that  somewhere 
among  the  crowd  he  might  happen  on  Har 
mony.  For  some  reason  he  thought  of  her  al 
ways  as  in  a  crowd,  with  people  close,  touching 
her,  men  staring  at  her,  following  her.  He  had 
spent  a  frightful  night  in  the  Opera,  scanning 
seat  after  seat,  not  so  much  because  he  hoped 
to  find  her  as  because  inaction  was  intolerable. 

And  so,  on  that  afternoon,  he  made  his  slow 
progress  along  the  Karntnerstrasse,  halting 
now  and  then  to  scrutinize  the  crowd.  He  even 
peered  through  the  doors  of  shops  here  and 
there,  hoping  while  he  feared  that  the  girl 
might  be  seeking  employment  within,  as  she 
had  before  in  the  early  days  of  the  winter. 

Because  of  his  stature  and  powerful  physique, 
and  perhaps,  too,  because  of  the  wretchedness 
in  his  eyes,  people  noticed  him.  There  was  one 
place  where  Peter  lingered,  where  a  new  build-- 
ing  was  being  erected,  and  where  because  of  the 
narrowness  of  the  passage  the  dense  crowd  was 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

thinned  as  it  passed.  He  stood  by  choice  out 
side  a  hairdresser's  window,  where  a  brilliant 
light  shone  on  each  face  that  passed. 

Inside  the  clerks  had  noticed  him.    Two  of  ' 
them  standing  together  by  the  desk  spoke  of 
him:   "He  is  there  again,  the  gray  man!" 

"Ah,  so!  But,  yes,  there  is  his  back!" 

"Poor  one,  it  is  the  Fraulein  Engel  he  waits 
to  see,  perhaps." 

"More  likely  Le  Grande,  the  American.  He 
is  American." 

"He  is  Russian.   Look  at  his  size." 

"But  his  shoes!"  triumphantly.  "They  are 
American,  little  one." 

The  third  girl  had  not  spoken;  she  was  wrap 
ping  in  tissue  a  great  golden  rose  made  for  the 
hair.  She  placed  it  in  a  box  carefully. 

"I  think  he  is  of  the  police,"  she  said,  "or  a 
spy.  There  is  much  talk  of  war." 

"Foolishness!  Does  a  police  officer  sigh  al 
ways?  Or  a  spy  have  such  sadness  in  his  face? 
And  he  grows  thin  and  white." 

"The  rose,  Fraulein." 

The  clerk  who  had  wrapped  up  the  flower 
held  it  out  to  the  customer.  The  customer, 
however,  was  not  looking.  She  was  gazing  with 
strange  intentness  at  the  back  of  a  worn  gray 
overcoat.  Then  with  a  curious  clutch  at  her 
heart  she  went  white.  Harmony,  of  course, 

304 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  come  to  fetch  the  golden  rose  that  was 
to  complete  Le  Grande's  costume. 

She  recovered  almost  at  once  and  made  an 
excuse  to  leave  by  another  exit. 

She  took  a  final  look  at  the  gray  sleeve  that 
was  all  she  could  see  of  Peter,  who  had  shifted 
a  bit,  and  stumbled  out  into  the  crowd, 
walking  along  with  her  lip  trembling  under  her 
veil,  and  with  the  slow  and  steady  ache  at  her 
heart  that  she  had  thought  she  had  stilled  for 
good. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Harmony  that 
Peter  loved  her.  He  had  proposed  to  her  twice, 
but  that  had  been  in  each  case  to  solve  a  diffi 
culty  for  her.  And  once  he  had  taken  her  in 
his  arms,  but  that  was  different.  Even  then  he 
had  not  said  he  loved  her  —  had  not  even  known 
it,  to  be  exact.  Nor  had  Harmony  realized 
what  Peter  meant  to  her  until  she  had  put  him 
out  of  her  life. 

The  sight  of  the  familiar  gray  coat,  the  scrap 
of  conversation,  so  enlightening  as  to  poor 
Peter's  quest,  that  Peter  was  growing  thin  and 
white,  made  her  almost  reel.  She  had  been  too 
occupied  with  her  own  position  to  realize 
Peter's.  With  the  glimpse  of  him  came  a  great 
longing  for  the  house  on  the  Siebensternstrasse, 
for  Jimmy's  arms  about  her  neck,  for  the  salon 
with  the  lamp  lighted  and  the  sleet  beating 

305 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

harmlessly  against  the  casement  windows,  for 
the  little  kitchen  with  the  brick  stove,  for  - 
Peter. 

Doubts  of  the  wisdom  of  her  course  assailed 
her.  But  to  go  back  meant,  at  the  best,  adding 
to  Peter's  burden  of  Jimmy  and  Marie,  meant 
the  old  situation  again,  too,  for  Marie  most 
certainly  did  not  add  to  the  respectability  of 
the  establishment.  And  other  doubts  assailed 
her.  What  if  Jimmy  were  not  so  well,  should 
die,  as  was  possible,  and  she  had  not  let  his 
mother  see  him! 

Monia  Reiff  was  very  busy  that  day. 
Harmony  did  not  leave  the  workroom  until 
eight  o'clock.  During  all  that  time,  wiiile  her 
slim  fingers  worked  over  fragile  laces  and  soft 
chiffons,  she  was  seeing  Jimmy  as  she  had  seen 
him  last,  with  the  flower  fairies  on  his  pillow, 
and  Peter,  keeping  watch  over  the  crowd  in 
the  Karntnerstrasse,  looking  with  his  steady 
eyes  for  her. 

No  part  of  the  city  was  safe  for  a  young  girl 
after  night,  she  knew;  the  sixteenth  district 
was  no  better  than  the  rest,  rather  worse  in 
places.  But  the  longing  to  see  the  house  on  the 
Siebensternstrasse  grew  on  her,  became  from 
an  ache  a  sharp  and  insistent  pain.  She  must 
go,  must  see  once  again  the  comfortable  glow 

306 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

of  Peter's  lamp,  the  flicker  that  was  the 
fire. 

She  ate  no  supper.  She  was  too  tired  to  eat, 
and  there  was  the  pain.  She  put  on  her  wraps 
and  crept  down  the  whitewashed  staircase. 
The  paved  courtyard  below  was  to  be  crossed 
and  it  was  poorly  lighted.  She  achieved  the 
street,  however,  without  molestation.  To  the 
street-car  was  only  a  block,  but  during  that 
block  she  was  accosted  twice.  She  was  white 
and  frightened  when  she  reached  the  car. 

The  Siebensternstrasse  at  last.  The  street 
was  always  dark;  the  delicatessen  shop  was 
closed,  but  in  the  wild-game  store  next  a  light 
was  burning  low,  and  a  flame  flickered  before 
the  little  shrine  over  the  money  drawer.  The 
gameseller  was  a  religious  man. 

The  old  stucco  house  dominated  the  neigh 
borhood.  From  the  time  she  left  the  car  Harmony 
saw  it,  its  long  flat  roof  black  against  the  dark 
sky,  its  rows  of  unlighted  windows,  its  long  wall 
broken  in  the  center  by  the  gate.  Now  from 
across  the  street  its  whole  fagade  lay  before  her. 
Peter's  lamp  was  not  lighted,  but  there  was  a 
glow  of  soft  firelight  from  the  salon  windows. 
The  light  was  not  regular  —  it  disappeared  at 
regular  intervals,  was  blotted  out.  Harmony 
knew  what  that  meant.  Some  one  beyond  range 
of  where  she  stood  was  pacing  the  floor,  back 

307 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  forward,  back  and  forward.  When  he  was 
worried  or  anxious  Peter  always  paced  the  floor. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  stood  there. 
One  of  the  soft  rains  was  falling,  or  more  accu 
rately,  condensing.  The  saturated  air  was  hardly 
cold.  She  stood  on  the  pavement  unmolested, 
while  the  glow  died  lower  and  lower,  until  at 
last  it  was  impossible  to  trace  the  pacing  figure. 
No  one  came  to  any  of  the  windows.  The  little 
lamp  before  the  shrine  in  the  wild-game  shop 
burned  itself  out;  the  Portier  across  the  way 
came  to  the  door,  glanced  up  at  the  sky  and 
went  in.  Harmony  heard  the  rattle  of  the  chain 
as  it  was  stretched  across  the  door  inside. 

Not  all  the  windows  of  the  suite  opened  on 
the  street.  Jimmy's  windows  —  and  Peter's  — 
opened  toward  the  back  of  the  house,  where  in  a 
brick-paved  courtyard  the  wife  of  the  Portier 
hung  her  washing,  and  where  the  Portier  him 
self  kept  a  hutch  of  rabbits.  A  wild  and  reckless 
desire  to  see  at  least  the  light  from  the  child's 
room  possessed  Harmony.  Even  the  light  would 
be  something;  to  go  like  this,  to  carry  with  her 
only  the  memory  of  a  dark  looming  house 
without  cheer  was  unthinkable.  The  gate  was 
never  locked.  If  she  but  went  into  the  garden 
and  round  by  the  spruce  tree  to  the  back  of 
the  house,  it  would  be  something. 

She  knew  the  garden  quite  well.  Even  the 
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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

darkness  had  no  horror  for  her.  Little  Scatchy 
had  had  a  habit  of  leaving  various  articles  on 
her  window-sill  and  of  instigating  searches  for 
them  at  untimely  hours  of  night.  Once  they 
had  found  her  hairbrush  in  the  rabbit  hutch! 
So  Harmony,  ashamed  but  unalarmed,  made 
her  way  by  the  big  spruce  to  the  corner  of  the 
old  lodge  and  thus  to  the  courtyard. 

Ah,  this  was  better!  Lights  all  along  the 
apartment  floor  and  moving  shadows;  on  Jim 
my's  window-sill  a  jar  of  milk.  And  voices  — 
some  one  was  singing. 

Peter  was  singing,  droning  softly,  as  one 
who  puts  a  drowsy  child  to  sleep.  Slower  and 
slower,  softer  and  softer,  over  and  over,  the 
little  song  Harmony  had  been  wont  to  sing :  — 

"  Ah  well!   For  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes. 
And  in  the  —  hereafter  —  angels  may 
Roll  —  the  —  stone  —  from  —  its  —  grave  —  away." 

Slower  and  slower,  softer  and  softer,  until  it 
died  away  altogether.  Peter,  in  his  old  dressing- 
gown,  came  to  the  window  and  turned  down 
the  gaslight  beside  it  to  a  blue  point.  Harmony 
did  not  breathe.  For  a  minute,  two  minutes, 
he  stood  there  looking  out.  Far  off  the  twin 
clocks  of  the  Votivkirche  struck  the  hour.  All 
about  lay  the  lights  of  the  old  city,  so  very  old, 
so  wise,  so  cunning,  so  cold. 

[309 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Peter  stood  looking  out,  as  he  had  each  night 
since  Harmony  went  away.  Each  night  he 
sang  the  boy  to  sleep,  turned  down  the  light 
and  stood  by  the  window.  And  each  night  he 
whispered  to  the  city  that  sheltered  Harmony 
somewhere,  what  he  had  whispered  to  the  little 
sweater  coat  the  night  before  he  went  away :  — 

"Good-night,  dear.   Good-night,  Harmony." 

The  rabbits  stirred  uneasily  in  the  hutch; 
a  passing  gust  shook  the  great  tree  overhead 
and  sent  down  a  sharp  shower  on  to  the  bricks 
below.  Peter  struck  a  match  and  lit  his  pipe; 
the  flickering  light  illuminated  his  face,  his 
rough  hair,  his  steady  eyes. 

"Good-night,  Peter,"  whispered  Harmony. 
"Good-night,  dear." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WALTER  STEWART  had  made  an  un 
complicated  recovery,  helped  along  by 
relief  at  the  turn  events  had  taken.  In  a  few 
days  he  was  going  about  again,  weak  naturally, 
rather  handsomer  than  before  because  a  little 
less  florid.  But  the  week's  confinement  had 
given  him  an  opportunity  to  think  over  many 
things.  Peter  had  set  him  thinking,  on  the  day 
when  he  had  packed  up  the  last  of  Marie's 
small  belongings  and  sent  them  down  to  Vienna. 

Stewart,  lying  in  bed,  had  watched  him. 
"Just  how  much  talk  do  you  suppose  this  has 
made,  Byrne?"  he  asked. 

"Haven't  an  idea.  Some  probably.  The 
people  in  the  Russian  villa  saw  it,  you  know." 

Stewart's  brows  contracted. 

"Damnation!  Then  the  hotel  has  it,  of 
course!" 

"Probably." 

Stewart  groaned.  Peter  closed  Marie's  Ameri 
can  trunk  of  which  she  had  been  so  proud,  and 
coming  over  looked  down  at  the  injured  man. 

"Don't  you  think  you  'd  better  tell  the  girl 
all  about  it?" 

311 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"No,"  doggedly. 

"I  know,  of  course,  it  would  n't  be  easy,  but 
—  you  can't  get  away  with  it,  Stewart.  That 's 
one  way  of  looking  at  it.  There 's  another." 

"What's  that?" 

"Starting  with  a  clean  slate.  If  she 's  the  sort 
you  want  to  marry,  and  not  a  prude,  she'll 
understand,  not  at  first,  but  after  she  gets  used 
to  it." 

"  She  would  n't  understand  in  a  thousand 
years." 

"Then  you'd  better  not  marry  her.  You 
know,  Stewart,  I  have  an  idea  that  women 
imagine  a  good  many  pretty  rotten  things 
about  us,  anyhow.  A  sensible  girl  would  rather 
know  the  truth  and  be  done  with  it.  What  a 
man  has  done  with  his  life  before  a  girl  —  the 
right  girl  —  comes  into  it  is  n't  a  personal 
injury  to  her,  since  she  was  n't  a  part  of  his 
life  then.  You  know  what  I  mean.  But  she 
has  a  right  to  know  it  before  she  chooses." 

"How  many  would  choose  under  those  cir 
cumstances?"  he  jibed. 

Peter  smiled.  "Quite  a  few,"  he  said  cheer 
fully.  "It's  a  wrong  system,  of  course;  but  we 
can  get  a  little  truth  out  of  it." 

:'You  can't  get  away  with  it"  stuck  in  Stew 
art's  mind  for  several  days.  It  was  the  one  thing 
Peter  said  that  did  stick.  And  before  Stewart 

312 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

had  recovered  enough  to  be  up  and  about  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  tell  Anita.  In  his 
mind  he  made  quite  a  case  for  himself;  he  argued 
the  affair  against  his  conscience  and  came  out 
victorious. 

Anita's  party  had  broken  up.  The  winter 
sports  did  not  compare,  they  complained,  with 
St.  Moritz.  They  disliked  German  cooking. 
Into  the  bargain  the  weather  was  not  good; 
the  night's  snows  turned  soft  by  midday;  and 
the  crowds  that  began  to  throng  the  hotels  were 
solid  citizens,  not  the  fashionables  of  the  Riviera. 
Anita's  arm  forbade  her  traveling.  In  the  reas 
sembling  of  the  party  she  went  to  the  Kurhaus 
in  the  valley  below  the  pension  with  one  of 
the  women  who  wished  to  take  the  baths. 

It  was  to  the  Kurhaus,  then,  that  Stewart 
made  his  first  excursion  after  the  accident.  He 
went  to  dinner.  Part  of  the  chaperon's  treat 
ment  called  for  an  early  retiring  hour,  which 
was  highly  as  he  had  wished  it  and  rather  un 
nerving  after  all.  A  man  may  decide  that  a  dose 
of  poison  is  the  remedy  for  all  his  troubles,  but 
he  does  not  approach  his  hour  with  any  hilarity. 
Stewart  was  a  stupid  dinner  guest,  ate  very 
little,  and  looked  haggard  beyond  belief  when 
the  hour  came  for  the  older  woman  to  leave. 

He  did  not  lack  courage  however.  It  was  his 
great  asset,  physical  and  mental  rather  than 

313 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

moral,  but  courage  nevertheless.  The  evening 
was  quiet,  and  they  elected  to  sit  on  the  bal 
cony  outside  Anita's  sitting  room,  the  girl 
swathed  in  white  furs  and  leaning  back  in  her 
steamer  chair. 

Below  lay  the  terrace  of  the  Kurhaus,  edged 
with  evergreen  trees.  Beyond  and  far  below 
that  was  the  mountain  village,  a  few  scattered 
houses  along  a  frozen  stream.  The  townspeople 
retired  early;  light  after  light  was  extinguished, 
until  only  one  in  the  priest's  house  remained. 
A  train  crept  out  of  one  tunnel  and  into  another, 
like  a  glowing  worm  crawling  from  burrow  to 
burrow. 

The  girl  felt  a  change  in  Stewart.  During 
the  weeks  he  had  known  her  there  had  been  a 
curious  restraint  in  his  manner  to  her.  There 
were  times  whan  an  avowal  seemed  to  tremble 
on  his  lips,  when  his  eyes  looked  into  hers  with 
the  look  no  woman  ever  mistakes;  the  next 
moment  he  would  glance  away,  his  face  would 
harden.  They  were  miles  apart.  And  perhaps 
the  situation  had  piqued  the  girl.  Certainly  it 
had  lost  nothing  for  her  by  its  unusualness. 

To-night  there  was  a  difference  in  the  man. 
His  eyes  met  hers  squarely,  without  evasion, 
but  with  a  new  quality,  a  searching,  perhaps, 
for  something  in  her  to  give  him  courage. 
The  girl  had  character,  more  than  ordinary 

314 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

decision.  It  was  what  Stewart  admired  in  her 
most,  and  the  thing,  of  course,  that  the  little 
Marie  had  lacked.  Moreover,  Anita,  barely 
twenty,  was  a  woman,  not  a  young  girl.  Her 
knowledge  of  the  world,  not  so  deep  as  Marie's, 
was  more  comprehensive.  Where  Marie  would 
have  been  merciful,  Anita  would  be  just,  unless 
she  cared  for  him.  In  that  case  she  might  be 
less  than  just,  or  more. 

Anita  in  daylight  was  a  pretty  young  woman, 
rather  incisive  of  speech,  very  intelligent, 
having  a  wit  without  malice,  charming  to  look 
at,  keenly  alive.  Anita  in  the  dusk  of  the  bal 
cony,  waiting  to  hear  she  knew  not  what,  was  a 
judicial  white  goddess,  formidably  still,  fright 
fully  potential.  Stewart,  who  had  embraced 
many  women,  did  not  dare  a  finger  on  her  arm. 

He  had  decided  on  a  way  to  tell  the  girl  the 
story  —  a  preamble  about  his  upbringing,  which 
had  been  indifferent,  his  struggle  to  get  to  Vienna, 
his  loneliness  there,  all  leading  with  inevitable 
steps  to  Marie.  From  that,  if  she  did  not  utterly 
shrink  from  him,  to  his  love  for  her. 

It  was  his  big  hour,  that  hour  on  the  balcony. 
He  was  reaching,  through  love,  heights  of  hon 
esty  he  had  never  scaled  before.  But  as  a  matter 
of  fact  he  reversed  utterly  his  order  of  procedure. 
The  situation  got  him,  this  first  evening  ab 
solutely  alone  with  her.  That  and  her  nearness, 

315 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  the  pathos  of  her  bandaged,  useless  arm. 
Still  he  had  not  touched  her. 

The  thing  he  was  trying  to  do  was  more 
difficult  for  that.  General  credulity  to  the  con 
trary,  men  do  not  often  make  spoken  love  first. 
How  many  men  propose  marriage  to  their  women 
across  the  drawing-room  or  from  chair  to  chair? 
Absurd!  The  eyes  speak  first,  then  the  arms, 
the  lips  last.  The  woman  is  in  his  arms  before 
he  tells  his  love.  It  is  by  her  response  that  he 
gauges  his  chances  and  speaks  of  marriage. 
Actually  the  thing  is  already  settled;  tardy 
speech  only  follows  on  swift  instinct.  Stewart, 
wooing  as  men  woo,  would  have  taken  the  girl's 
hand,  gained  an  encouragement  from  it,  ven 
tured  to  kiss  it,  perhaps,  and  finding  no  rebuff 
would  then  and  there  have  crushed  her  to  him. 
What  need  of  words?  They  would  follow  in  due 
time,  not  to  make  a  situation  but  to  clarify  it. 

But  he  could  not  woo  as  men  woo.  The  bar 
rier  of  his  own  weakness  stood  between  them 
and  must  be  painfully  taken  down. 

"I'm  afraid  this  is  stupid  for  you,"  said 
Anita  out  of  the  silence.  "Would  you  like  to 
go  to  the  music-room?" 

"God  forbid.    I  was  thinking." 

"Of  what?"    Encouragement  this,  surely. 

"  I  was  thinking  how  you  had  come  into  my 
life,  and  stirred  it  up." 

316 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Really?  I?" 

"You  know  that." 

"How  did  I  stir  it  up?" 

"That's  hardly  the  way  I  meant  to  put  it. 
You  Ve  changed  everything  for  me.  I  care  for 
you  —  a  very  great  deal." 

He  was  still  carefully  in  hand,  his  voice  steady. 
And  still  he  did  not  touch  her.  Other  men  had 
made  love  to  her,  but  never  in  this  fashion,  or 
was  he  making  love? 

"I  'm  very  glad  you  like  me." 

"Like  you!"  Almost  out  of  hand  that  time. 
The  thrill  in  his  voice  was  unmistakable.  "It 's 
much  more  than  that,  Anita,  so  much  more 
that  I  'm  going  to  try  to  do  a  hideously  hard 
thing.  Will  you  help  a  little?" 

"Yes,  if  I  can."  She  was  stirred,  too,  and 
rather  frightened. 

Stewart  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  her  and  sat 
forward,  his  face  set  and  dogged. 

"Have  you  any  idea  how  you  were  hurt? 
Or  why?" 

"  No.  There 's  a  certain  proportion  of  accidents 
that  occur  at  all  these  places,  is  n't  there?" 

:<This  was  not  an  accident." 

"No?" 

:<The  branch  of  a  tree  was  thrown  out  in 
front  of  the  sled  to  send  us  over  the  bank. 
It  was  murder,  if  intention  is  crime." 

317 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

After  a  brief  silence  — 

"Somebody  who  wished  to  kill  you,  or 
me?" 

"Both  of  us,  I  believe.  It  was  done  by  a 
woman  —  a  girl,  Anita.  A  girl  I  had  been  living 
with." 

A  brutal  way  to  tell  her,  no  doubt,  but  ad 
mirably  courageous.  For  he  was  quivering  with 
dread  when  he  said  it  —  the  courage  of  the 
man  who  faces  a  cannon.  And  here,  where  a 
less-poised  woman  would  have  broken  into 
speech,  Anita  took  the  refuge  of  her  kind  and 
was  silent.  Stewart  watched  her  as  best  he 
could  in  the  darkness,  trying  to  gather  further 
courage  to  go  on.  He  could  not  see  her  face, 
but  her  fingers,  touching  the  edge  of  the  chair, 
quivered. 

"May  I  tell  you  the  rest?" 

"I  don't  think  I  want  to  hear  it." 

"Are  you  going  to  condemn  me  unheard?" 

" There  isn't  anything  you  can  say  against 
the  fact?" 

But  there  was  much  to  say,  and  sitting  there 
in  the  darkness  he  made  his  plea.  He  made  no 
attempt  to  put  his  case.  He  told  what  had 
happened  simply;  he  told  of  his  loneliness  and 
,  discomfort.  And  he  emphasized  the  lack  of 
sentiment  that  prompted  the  arrangement. 

Anita  spoke  then  for  the  first  time:  "And 
318 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

when  you  tried  to  terminate  it  she  attempted 
to  kill  you!" 

"I  was  acting  the  beast.  I  brought  her  up 
here,  and  then  neglected  her  for  you." 

"Then  it  was  hardly  only  a  business  arrange 
ment  for  her." 

"It  was  at  first.  I  never  dreamed  of  any 
thing  else.  I  swear  that,  Anita.  But  lately, 
in  the  last  month  or  two,  she  —  I  suppose  I 
should  have  seen  that  she  — " 

"That  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  you.  How 
old  is  she?" 

"Nineteen." 

A  sudden  memory  came  to  Anita,  of  a  slim 
young  girl,  who  had  watched  her  with  wide, 
almost  childish  eyes. 

"Then  it  was  she  who  was  in  the  compartment 
with  you  on  the  train  coming  up?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  is  she  now?" 

"In  Vienna.  I  have  not  heard  from  her. 
Byrne,  the  chap  who  came  up  to  see  me  after 
the  —  after  the  accident,  sent  her  away.  I 
think  he  's  looking  after  her.  I  have  n't  heard 
from  him." 

"Why  did  you  tell  me  all  this?" 

"Because  I  love  you,  Anita.  I  want  you  to 
marry  me." 

"What!  After  that?" 
319 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"That,  or  something  similar,  is  in  many  men's 
lives.  They  don't  tell  it,  that 's  the  difference. 
I  'm  not  taking  any  credit  for  telling  you  this. 
I  'm  ashamed  to  the  bottom  of  my  soul,  and  when 
I  look  at  your  bandaged  arm  I  'm  suicidal. 
Peter  Byrne  urged  me  to  tell  you.  He  said  I 
could  n't  get  away  with  it;  some  time  or  other 
it  would  come  out.  Then  he  said  something 
else.  He  said  you'd  probably  understand,  and 
that  if  you  married  me  it  was  better  to  start 
with  a  clean  slate." 

No  love,  no  passion  in  the  interview  now. 
A  clear  statement  of  fact,  an  offer  —  his  past 
against  hers,  his  future  with  hers.  Her  hand 
was  steady  now.  The  light  in  the  priest's 
house  had  been  extinguished.  The  chill  of  the 
mountain  night  penetrated  Anita's  white  furs, 
and  set  her  —  or  was  it  the  chill?  --to  shivering. 

"If  I  had  not  told  you,  would  you  have 
married  me?" 

"I  think  so.   I  '11  be  honest,  too.   Yes." 

"  I  am  the  same  man  you  would  have  married. 
Only  —  more  honest." 

"I  cannot  argue  about  it.  I  am  tired  and 
cold." 

Stewart  glanced  across  the  valley  to  where 
the  cluster  of  villas  hugged  the  mountain-side. 
There  was  a  light  in  his  room;  outside  was  the 
little  balcony  where  Marie  had  leaned  against 

320 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  railing  and  looked  down,  down.  Some  of 
the  arrogance  of  his  new  virtue  left  the  man. 
He  was  suddenly  humbled.  For  the  first  time 
he  realized  a  part  of  what  Marie  had  endured 
in  that  small  room  where  the  light  burned. 

"Poor  little  Marie!"  he  said  softly. 

The  involuntary  exclamation  did  more  for 
him  than  any  plea  he  could  have  made.  Anita 
rose  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Go  and  see  her,"  she  said  quietly.  "You 
owe  her  that.  We  '11  be  leaving  here  in  a  day 
or  so  and  I  '11  not  see  you  again.  But  you  've 
been  honest,  and  I  will  be  honest,  too.  I  — I 
cared  a  great  deal,  too." 

"And  this  has  killed  it?" 

"I  hardly  comprehend  it  yet.  I  shall  have  to 
have  time  to  think." 

"But  if  you  are  going  away  —  I  'm  afraid  to 
leave  you.  You  '11  think  this  thing  over,  alone, 
and  all  the  rules  of  life  you've  been  taught 
will  come  — " 

"Please,  I  must  think.  I  will  write  you,  I 
promise." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  crushed  it  between 
both  of  his. 

"I  suppose  you  would  rather  I  did  not  kiss 
you?"  humbly. 

"I  do  not  want  you  to  kiss  me." 

He  released  her  hand  and  stood  looking  down 
321 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

at  her  in  the  darkness.  If  he  could  only  have 
crushed  her  to  him,  made  her  feel  the  security 
of  his  love,  of  his  sheltering  arms!  But  the 
barrier  of  his  own  building  was  between  them. 
His  voice  was  husky. 

"I  want  you  to  try  to  remember,  past  what 
I  have  told  you,  to  the  thing  that  concerns  us 
both  -  - 1  love  you.  I  never  loved  the  other 
woman.  I  never  pretended  I  loved  her.  And 
there  will  be  nothing  more  like  that." 

"I  shall  try  to  remember." 

Anita  left  Semmering  the  next  day,  against 
the  protests  of  the  doctor  and  the  pleadings  of 
the  chaperon.  She  did  not  see  Stewart  again. 
But  before  she  left,  with  the  luggage  gone  and 
the  fiacre  at  the  door,  she  went  out  on  the 
terrace,  and  looked  across  to  the  Villa  Wald- 
heim,  rising  from  among  its  clustering  trees. 
Although  it  was  too  far  to  be  certain,  she  thought 
she  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  on  the  little  balcony 
standing  with  folded  arms,  gazing  across  the 
valley  to  the  Kurhaus. 

Having  promised  to  see  Marie,  Stewart 
proceeded  to  carry  out  his  promise  in  his  direct 
fashion.  He  left  Semmering  the  evening  of  the 
following  day,  for  Vienna.  The  strain  of  the 
confession  was  over,  but  he  was  a  victim  of 
sickening  dread.  To  one  thing  only  he  dared 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  pin  his  hopes.  Anita  had  said  she  cared, 
cared  a  great  deal.  And,  after  all,  what  else 
mattered?  The  story  had  been  a  jolt,  he  told 
himself.  Girls  were  full  of  queer  ideas  of  right 
and  wrong,  bless  them!  But  she  cared.  She 
cared ! 

He  arrived  in  Vienna  at  nine  o'clock  that 
night.  The  imminence  of  his  interview  with 
Marie  hung  over  him  like  a  cloud.  He  ate  a 
hurried  supper,  and  calling  up  the  Doctors' 
Club  by  telephone  found  Peter's  address  in  the 
Siebensternstrasse.  He  had  no  idea,  of  course, 
that  Marie  was  there.  He  wanted  to  see  Peter 
to  learn  where  Marie  had  taken  refuge,  and 
incidentally  to  get  from  Peter  a  fresh  supply  of 
moral  courage  for  the  interview.  For  he  needed 
courage.  In  vain  on  the  journey  down  had  he 
clothed  himself  in  armor  of  wrath  against  the 
girl;  the  very  compartment  in  the  train  pro 
voked  softened  memories  of  her.  Here  they  had 
bought  a  luncheon,  there  Marie  had  first  seen 
the  Rax.  Again  at  this  station  she  had  curled 
up  and  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder  for  a  nap. 
Ah,  but  again,  at  this  part  of  the  journey  he 
had  first  seen  Anita! 

He  took  a  car  to  the  Siebensternstrasse.  His 
idea  of  Peter's  manner  of  living  those  days  was 
exceedingly  vague.  He  had  respected  Peter's 
reticence,  after  the  manner  of  men  with  each 

323 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

other.  Peter  had  once  mentioned  a  boy  he 
was  looking  after,  in  excuse  for  leaving  so  soon 
after  the  accident.  That  was  all. 

The  house  on  the  Siebensternstrasse  loomed 
large  and  unlighted.  The  street  was  dark,  and 
it  was  only  after  a  search  that  Stewart  found  the 
gate.  Even  then  he  lost  the  path,  and  found 
himself  among  a  group  of  trees,  to  touch  the 
lowest  branches  of  any  of  which  resulted  in  a 
shower  of  raindrops.  To  add  to  his  discomfort 
some  one  was  walking  in  the  garden,  coming 
toward  him  with  light,  almost  stealthy  steps. 

Stewart  by  his  tree  stood  still,  waiting.  The 
steps  approached,  were  very  close,  were  beside 
him.  So  intense  was  the  darkness  that  even 
then  all  he  saw  was  a  blacker  shadow,  and  that 
was  visible  only  because  it  moved.  Then  a 
hand  touched  his  arm,  stopped  as  if  paralyzed, 
drew  back  slowly,  fearfully. 

"Good  Heavens!"  said  poor  Harmony  faintly. 

"Please  don't  be  alarmed.  I  have  lost  the 
path."  Stewart's  voice  was  almost  equally 
nervous.  "Is  it  to  the  right  or  the  left?" 

It  was  a  moment  before  Harmony  had  breath 
to  speak.  Then :  - 

"To  the  right  a  dozen  paces  or  so." 

"Thank  you.  Perhaps  I  can  help  you  to  find 
it." 

"I  know  it  quite  well.  Please  don't  bother." 
324 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  whole  situation  was  so  unexpected  that 
only  then  did  it  dawn  on  Stewart  that  this 
blacker  shadow  was  a  countrywoman  speaking 
God's  own  language.  Together,  Harmony  a 
foot  or  so  in  advance,  they  made  the  path. 

"The  house  is  there.  Ring  hard,  the  bell  is 
out  of  order." 

"Are  you  not  coming  in?" 

"No.   I  --  I  do  not  live  here." 

She  must  have  gone  just  after  that.  Stewart, 
glancing  at  the  dark  fagade  of  the  house, 
turned  round  to  find  her  gone,  and  a  moment 
later  heard  the  closing  of  the  gate.  He  was 
bewildered.  What  sort  of  curious  place  was  this, 
a  great  looming  house  that  concealed  in  its 
garden  a  fugitive  American  girl  who  came  and 
went  like  a  shadow,  leaving  only  the  memory 
of  a  sweet  voice  strained  with  fright? 

Stewart  was  full  of  his  encounter  as  he  took 
the  candle  the  Portier  gave  him  and  fol 
lowed  the  gentleman's  gruff  directions  up  the 
staircase.  Peter  admitted  him,  looking  a  trifle 
uneasy,  as  well  he  might  with  Marie  in  the 
salon. 

Stewart  was  too  preoccupied  to  notice  Peter's 
expression.  He  shook  the  rain  off  his  hat, 
smiling. 

"  How  are  you? "  asked  Peter  dutifully. 

"Pretty  good,  except  for  a  headache  when 
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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

I  'm  tired.  What  sort  of  a  place  have  you  got 
here  anyhow,  Byrne?" 

"Old  hunting-lodge  of  Maria  Theresa,"  re 
plied  Peter,  still  preoccupied  with  Marie  and 
what  was  coming.  "Rather  interesting  old 
place." 

"Rather,"  commented  Stewart,  "with  god 
desses  in  the  garden  and  all  the  usual  stunts." 

"Goddesses?" 

"Ran  into  one  just  now  among  the  trees. 
*A  woman  I  forswore,  but  thou  being  a  goddess 
I  forswore  not  thee.'  English-speaking  goddess, 
by  George!" 

Peter  was  staring  at  him  incredulously;  now 
he  bent  forward  and  grasped  his  arm  in  fingers 
of  steel. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Stewart,  tell  me  what 
you  mean!  Who  was  in  the  garden?" 

Stewart  was  amused  and  interested.  It  was 
not  for  him  to  belittle  a  situation  of  his  own 
making,  an  incident  of  his  own  telling. 

"I  lost  my  way  in  your  garden,  wandered 
among  the  trees,  broke  through  a  hedgerow  or 
two,  struck  a  match  and  consulted  the  com 
pass  —  " 

Peter's  fingers  closed. 

"Quick,"  he  said. 

Stewart's  manner  lost  its  jauntiness. 

"There  was  a  girl  there,"  he  said  shortly. 
326 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Couldn't  see  her.  She  spoke  English.  Said 
she  did  n't  live  here,  and  broke  for  the  gate  the 
minute  I  got  to  the  path." 

"You  did  n't  see  her?" 

"No.   Nice  voice,  though.  Young." 

The  next  moment  he  was  alone.  Peter  in 
his  dressing-gown  was  running  down  the  stair 
case  to  the  lower  floor,  was  shouting  to  the 
Portier  to  unlock  the  door,  was  a  madman  in 
everything  but  purpose.  The  Portier  let  him 
out  and  returned  to  the  bedroom. 

"The  boy  above  is  worse,"  he  said  briefly. 
"A  strange  doctor  has  just  come,  and  but  now 
the  Herr  Doktor  Byrne  runs  to  the  drug  store." 

The  Portier's  wife  shrugged  her  shoulders 
even  while  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"What  can  one  expect?"  she  demanded. 
"The  good  Herr  Gott  has  forbidden  theft  and 
Rosa  says  the  boy  was  stolen.  Also  the  druggist 
has  gone  to  visit  his  wife's  mother." 

"Perhaps  I  may  be  of  service;  I  shall  go  up." 

"And  see  for  a  moment  that  hussy  of  the 
streets!  Remain  here.  I  shall  go." 

Slowly  and  ponderously  she  climbed  the  stairs. 

Stewart,  left  alone,  wandered  along  the  dim 
corridor.  He  found  Peter's  excitement  rather 
amusing.  So  this  was  where  Peter  lived,  an 
old  house,  isolated  in  a  garden  where  rambled 

327 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

young  women  with  soft  voices.  Hello,  a  young 
ster  asleep!  The  boy,  no  doubt. 

He  wandered  on  toward  the  lighted  door  of 
the  salon  and  Marie.  The  place  was  warm  and 
comfortable,  but  over  it  all  hung  the  inde 
scribable  odor  of  drugs  that  meant  illness.  He 
remembered  that  the  boy  was  frail. 

Marie  turned  as  he  stopped  in  the  salon  door 
way,  and  then  rose,  white-faced.  Across  the 
wide  spaces  of  the  room  they  eyed  each  other. 
Marie's  crisis  had  come.  Like  all  crises  it  was 
bigger  than  speech.  It  was  after  a  distinct 
pause  that  she  spoke. 

"Hast  thou  brought  the  police?" 

Curiously  human,  curiously  masculine  at 
least  was  Stewart's  mental  condition  at  that 
moment.  He  had  never  loved  the  girl;  it  was 
with  tremendous  relief  he  had  put  her  out  of 
his  life.  And  yet  — 

"So  it's  old  Peter  now,  is  it?" 

"No,  no,  not  that,  Walter.  He  has  given  me 
shelter,  that  is  all.  I  swear  it.  I  look  after  the 
boy." 

"Who  else  is  here?" 

"No  one  else;   but - 

"Tell  that  rot  to  some  one  who  does  not  know 

you." 

"It  is  true.  He  never  even  looks  at  me. 
I  am  wicked,  but  I  do  not  lie."  There  was  a 

328 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

catch  of  hope  in  her  voice.  Marie  knew  men 
somewhat,  but  she  still  cherished  the  feminine 
belief  that  jealousy  is  love,  whereas  it  is  only 
injured  pride.  She  took  a  step  toward  him. 
"Walter,  I  am  sorry.  Do  you  hate  me?"  She 
had  dropped  the  familiar  "thou." 

Stewart  crossed  the  room  until  only  Peter's 
table  and  lamp  stood  between  them. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  brutal,"  he  said, 
rather  largely,  entirely  conscious  of  his  own 
magnanimity.  "It  was  pretty  bad  up  there 
and  I  know  it.  I  don't  hate  you,  of  course. 
That 's  hardly  possible  after  —  everything." 

:' You  —  would  take  me  back?" 

"No.  It's  over,  Marie.  I  wanted  to  know 
where  you  were,  that 's  all ;  to  see  that  you  were 
comfortable  and  not  frightened.  You're  a  silly 
child  to  think  of  the  police." 

Marie  put  a  hand  to  her  throat. 

"It  is  the  American,  of  course." 

"Yes." 

She  staggered  a  trifle,  recovered,  threw  up 
her  head.  "Then  I  wish  I  had  killed  her!" 

No  man  ever  violently  resents  the  passionate 
hate  of  one  woman  for  her  rival  in  his  affections. 
Stewart,  finding  the  situation  in  hand  and  Marie 
only  feebly  formidable,  was  rather  amused  and 
flattered  by  the  honest  fury  in  her  voice.  The 
mouse  was  under  his  paw;  he  would  play  a  bit. 

329 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"You'll  get  over  feeling  that  way,  kid.  You 
don't  really  love  me." 

:'You  were  my  God,  that  is  all." 

1 '  Will  you  let  me  help  you  —  money,  I 
mean?" 

"Keep  it  for  her." 

"Peter  will  be  here  in  a  minute."  He  bent 
over  the  table  and  eyed  her  with  his  old,  half- 
bullying,  half -playful  manner.  "Come  round 
here  and  kiss  me  for  old  times." 

"No!" 

"Come." 

She  stood  stubbornly  still,  and  Stewart,  still 
smiling,  took  a  step  or  two  toward  her.  Then 
he  stopped,  ceased  smiling,  drew  himself  up. 

:'You  are  quite  right  and  I 'm  a  rotter." 
Marie's  English  did  not  comprehend  "rotter," 
but  she  knew  the  tone.  "Listen,  Marie,  I've 
told  the  other  girl,  and  there 's  a  chance  for  me, 
anyhow.  Some  day  she  may  marry  me.  She 
asked  me  to  see  you." 

"I  do  not  wish  her  pity." 

"You  are  wasting  your  life  here.  You  can 
not  marry,  you  say,  without  a  dot.  There  is 
a  chance  in  America  for  a  clever  girl.  You  are 
clever,  little  Marie.  The  first  money  I  can  spare 
I  '11  send  you  —  if  you  '11  take  it.  It 's  all  I  can 
do." 

This  was  a  new  Stewart,  a  man  she  had  never 
330 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

< 

known.  Marie  recoiled  from  him,  eyed  him 
nervously,  sought  in  her  childish  mind  for  an 
explanation.  When  at  last  she  understood  that 
he  was  sincere,  she  broke  down.  Stewart,  play 
ing  a  new  part  and  raw  in  it,  found  the  situation 
irritating.  But  Marie's  tears  were  not  entirely 
bitter.  Back  of  them  her  busy  young  mind 
was  weaving  a  new  warp  of  life,  with  all  of 
America  for  its  loom.  Hope  that  had  died  lived 
again.  Before  her  already  lay  that  great  coun 
try  where  women  might  labor  and  live  by  the 
fruit  of  their  labor,  where  her  tawdry  past 
would  be  buried  in  the  center  of  distant  Europe. 
New  life  beckoned  to  the  little  Marie  that  night 
in  the  old  salon  of  Maria  Theresa,  beckoned  to 
her  as  it  called  to  Stewart,  opportunity  to  one, 
love  and  work  to  the  other.  To  America! 

"I  will  go,"  she  said  at  last  simply.  "And  I 
\vill  not  trouble  you  there." 

"Good!"  Stewart  held  out  his  hand  and 
Marie  took  it.  With  a  quick  gesture  she  held 
it  to  her  cheek,  dropped  it. 

Peter  came  back  half  an  hour  later,  down 
cast  but  not  hopeless.  He  had  not  found  Har 
mony,  but  life  was  not  all  gray.  She  was  well, 
still  in  Vienna,  and  —  she  had  come  back! 
She  had  cared  then  enough  to  come  back. 
To-morrow  he  would  commence  again,  would 

331 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

comb  the  city  fine,  and  when  he  had  found  her 
he  would  bring  her  back,  the  wanderer,  to  a 
marvelous  welcome. 

He  found  Stewart  gone,  and  Marie  feverishly 
overhauling  her  few  belongings  by  the  salon 
lamp.  She  turned  to  him  a  face  still  stained  with 
tears  but  radiant  with  hope. 

"Peter,"  she  said  gravely,  "I  must  prepare 
my  outfit.  I  go  to  America." 

"With  Stewart?" 

"Alone,  Peter,  to  work,  to  be  very  good,  to 
be  something.  I  am  very  happy,  although  — 
Peter,  may  I  kiss  you?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Peter,  and  took  her  caress 
gravely,  patting  her  thin  shoulder.  His  thoughts 
were  in  the  garden  with  Harmony,  who  had 
cared  enough  to  come  back. 

"Life,"  said  Peter  soberly,  "life  is  just  one 
damned  thing  after  another,  is  n't  it?  " 

But  Marie  was  anxiously  examining  the  hem 
of  a  skirt. 

The  letter  from  Anita  reached  Stewart  the 
following  morning.  She  said :  — 

"I  have  been  thinking  things  over,  Walter, 
and  I  am  going  to  hurt  you  very  much  —  but 
not,  believe  me,  without  hurting  myself.  Per 
haps  my  uppermost  thought  just  now  is  that 
I  am  disappointing  you,  that  I  am  not  so  big 

332 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

as  you  thought  I  would  be.  For  now,  in  this 
final  letter,  I  can  tell  you  how  much  I  cared. 
Oh,  my  dear,  I  did  care! 

"But  I  will  not  marry  you.  And  when  this 
reaches  you  I  shall  have  gone  very  quietly  out 
of  your  life.  I  find  that  such  philosophy  as  I 
have  does  not  support  me  to-night,  that  all  my 
little  rules  of  life  are  inadequate.  Individual 
liberty  was  one  —  but  there  is  no  liberty  of 
the  individual.  Life  —  other  lives  —  press  too 
closely.  You,  living  your  life  as  seemed  best 
and  easiest,  and  carrying  down  with  you  into 
shipwreck  the  little  Marie  and  —  myself ! 

"For,  face  to  face  with  the  fact,  I  cannot 
accept  it,  Walter.  It  is  not  only  a  question  of 
my  past  against  yours.  It  is  of  steady  revolt 
and  loathing  of  the  whole  thing;  not  the  flash 
of  protest  before  one  succumbs  to  the  inevitable, 
but  a  deep-seated  hatred  that  is  a  part  of  me 
and  that  would  never  forget. 

''You  say  that  you  are  the  same  man  I  would 
have  married,  only  more  honest  for  concealing 
nothing.  But  —  and  forgive  me  this,  it  insists 
on  coming  up  in  my  mind  —  were  you  honest, 
really?  You  told  me,  and  it  took  courage,  but 
was  n't  it  partly  fear?  What  motive  is  un 
mixed?  Honesty  —  and  fear,  Walter.  You 
were  preparing  against  a  contingency,  although 
you  may  not  admit  this  to  yourself. 

333 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  am  not  passing  judgment  on  you.  God  for 
bid  that  I  should !  I  am  only  trying  to  show  you 
what  is  in  my  mind,  and  that  this  break  is 
final.  The  revolt  is  in  myself,  against  something 
sordid  and  horrible  which  I  will  not  take  into 
my  life.  And  for  that  reason  time  will  make 
no  difference. 

"I  am  not  a  child,  and  I  am  not  unreasonable. 
But  I  ask  a  great  deal  of  this  life  of  mine  that 
stretches  ahead,  Walter  —  home  and  children, 
the  love  of  a  good  man,  the  fulfillment  of  my 
ideals.  And  you  ask  me  to  start  with  a  handi 
cap.  I  cannot  do  it.  I  know  you  are  resentful, 
but  —  I  know  that  you  understand. 

"ANITA." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  little  Georgiev  was  in  trouble  those 
days.  The  Balkan  engine  was  threatening 
to  explode,  but  continued  to  gather  steam,  with 
Bulgaria  sitting  on  the  safety-valve.  Austria 
was  mobilizing  troops,  and  there  were  long 
conferences  in  the  Burg  between  the  Emperor 
and  various  bearded  gentlemen,  while  the  mil 
itary  prayed  in  the  churches  for  war. 

The  little  Georgiev  hardly  ate  or  slept. 
Much  hammering  went  on  all  day  in  the  small 
room  below  Harmony's  on  the  Wollbadgasse. 
At  night,  when  the  man  in  the  green  velours 
hat  took  a  little  sleep,  mysterious  packages 
were  carried  down  the  whitewashed  staircase 
and  loaded  into  wagons  waiting  below.  Once 
on  her  window-sill  Harmony  found  among  the 
pigeons  a  carrier  pigeon  with  a  brass  tube 
fastened  to  its  leg. 

On  the  morning  after  Harmony's  flight  from 
the  garden  in  the  Street  of  Seven  Stars,  she 
received  a  visit  from  Georgiev.  She  had  put  in 
a  sleepless  night,  full  of  heart-searching.  She 
charged  herself  with  cowardice  in  running  away 
from  Peter  and  Jimmy  when  they  needed  her, 

335 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars ' 

and  in  going  back  like  a  thief  the  night  before. 
The  conviction  that  the  boy  was  not  so  well 
brought  with  it  additional  introspection  —  her 
sacrifice  seemed  useless,  almost  childish.  She 
had  fled  because  two  men  thought  it  necessary, 
in  order  to  save  her  reputation,  to  marry  her; 
and  she  did  not  wish  to  marry.  Marriage  was 
fatal  to  the  career  she  had  promised  herself, 
had  been  promised.  But  this  career,  for  which 
she  had  given  up  everything  else  —  would  she 
find  it  in  the  workroom  of  a  dressmaker? 

Ah,  but  there  was  more  to  it  than  that. 
Suppose  —  how  her  cheeks  burned  when  she 
thought  of  it !  —  suppose  she  had  taken  Peter 
at  his  word  and  married  him?  What  about 
Peter's  career?  Was  there  any  way  by  which 
Peter's  poverty  for  one  would  be  comfort  for 
two?  Was  there  any  reason  why  Peter,  with 
his  splendid  ability,  should  settle  down  to  the 
hack-work  of  general  practice,  the  very  slough 
out  of  which  he  had  so  painfully  climbed? 

Either  of  two  things  —  go  back  to  Peter,  but 
not  to  marry  him,  or  stay  where  she  was.  How 
she  longed  to  go  back  only  Harmony  knew. 
There  in  the  little  room,  with  only  the  pigeons 
to  see,  she  held  out  her  arms  longingly.  "  Peter ! " 
she  said.  " Peter,  dear!" 

She  decided,  of  course,  to  stay  where  she 
was,  a  burden  to  no  one.  The  instinct  of  the 

336 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

young  girl  to  preserve  her  good  name  at  any 
cost  outweighed  the  vision  of  Peter  at  the  win 
dow,  haggard  and  tired,  'looking  out.  It  was 
Harmony's  chance,  perhaps,  to  do  a  big  thing; 
to  prove  herself  bigger  than  her  fears,  stronger 
than  convention.  But  she  was  young,  bewil 
dered,  afraid.  And  there  was  this  element, 
stronger  than  any  of  the  others  —  Peter  had 
never  told  her  he  loved  her.  To  go  back,  throw 
ing  herself  again  on  his  mercy,  was  unthinkable. 
On  his  love  —  that  was  different.  But  what  if 
he  did  not  love  her?  He  had  been  good  to  her; 
but  then  Peter  was  good  to  every  one. 

There  was  something  else.  If  the  boy  was 
worse  what  about  his  mother?  Whatever  she 
was  or  had  been,  she  was  his  mother.  Suppose 
he  were  to  die  and  his  mother  not  see  him? 
Harmony's  sense  of  fairness  rebelled.  In  the 
small  community  at  home  mother  was  sacred, 
her  claims  insistent. 

It  was  very  early,  hardly  more  than  dawn. 
The  pigeons  cooed  on  the  sill;  over  the  ridge 
of  the  church  roof,  across,  a  luminous  strip 
foretold  the  sun.  An  oxcart,  laden  with  vege 
tables  for  the  market,  lumbered  along  the 
streets.  Puzzled  and  unhappy,  Harmony  rose 
and  lighted  her  fire,  drew  on  her  slippers  and 
the  faded  silk  kimono  with  the  pink  butterflies. 

In  the  next  room  the  dressmaker  still  slept, 
337 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

dreaming  early  morning  dreams  of  lazy  appren 
tices,  overdue  bills,  complaining  customers. 

Harmony  moved  lightly  not  to  disturb  her. 
She  set  her  room  in  order,  fed  the  pigeons, —  it 
was  then  she  saw  the  carrier  with  its  message, 
—  made  her  morning  coffee  by  setting  the  tiny 
pot  inside  the  stove.  And  all  the  time,  moving 
quietly  through  her  morning  routine,  she  was 
there  in  that  upper  room  in  body  only. 

In  soul  she  was  again  in  the  courtyard  back 
of  the  old  lodge,  in  the  Street  of  Seven  Stars, 
with  the  rabbits  stirring  in  the  hutch,  and  Peter, 
with  rapt  eyes,  gazing  out  over  the  city.  Bed, 
toilet-table,  coffee-pot,  Peter;  pigeons,  rolls, 
Peter;  sunrise  over  the  church  roof,  and  Peter 
again.  Always  Peter! 

Monia  Reiff  was  stirring  in  the  next  room. 
Harmony  could  hear  her,  muttering  and  put 
ting  coal  on  the  stove  and  calling  to  the  Hun 
garian  maid  for  breakfast.  Harmony  dressed 
hastily.  It  was  one  of  her  new  duties  to  prepare 
the  workroom  for  the  day.  The  luminous  streak 
above  the  church  was  rose  now,  time  for  the 
day  to  begin. 

She  was  not  certain  at  once  that  some  one 
had  knocked  at  the  door,  so  faint  was  the  sound. 

She  hesitated,  listened.  The  knob  turned 
slightly.  Harmony,  expecting  Monia,  called 
"Come  in." 

338 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

It  was  the  little  Georgiev,  very  apologetic, 
rather  gray  of  face.  He  stood  in  the  doorway 
with  his  finger  on  his  lips,  one  ear  toward  the 
stairway.  It  was  very  silent.  Monia  was 
drinking  her  coffee  in  bed,  whither  she  had 
retired  for  warmth. 

"  Pardon  S"  said  the  Bulgarian  in  a  whis 
per.  "  I  listened  until  I  heard  you  mov 
ing  about.  Ah,  Fraulein,  that  I  must  disturb 
you!" 

"Something  has  happened!"  exclaimed  Har 
mony,  thinking  of  Peter,  of  course. 

"Not  yet.  I  fear  it  is  about  to  happen. 
Fraulein,  do  me  the  honor  to  open  your  window. 
My  pigeon  comes  now  to  you  to  be  fed,  and  I 
fear  —  on  the  sill,  Fraulein." 

Harmony  opened  the  window.  The  wild 
pigeons  scattered  at  once,  but  the  carrier,  flying 
out  a  foot  or  two,  came  back  promptly  and  set 
about  its  breakfast. 

"Will  he  let  me  catch  him?" 

"Pardon,  Fraulein,   If  I  may  enter — " 

"Come  in,  of  course." 

Evidently  the  defection  of  the  carrier  had 
been  serious.  A  handful  of  grain  on  a  wrong 
window-sill,  and  kingdoms  overthrown!  Geor 
giev  caught  the  pigeon  and  drew  the  message 
from  the  tube.  Even  Harmony  grasped  the 
seriousness  of  the  situation.  The  little  Bul- 

339 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

garian's  face,  from  gray  became  livid ;  tiny  beads 
of  cold  sweat  came  out  on  his  forehead. 

"What  have  I  done?"  cried  Harmony.  "Oh, 
what  have  I  done?  If  I  had  known  about  the 
pigeon  - 

Georgiev  recovered  himself. 

"The  Fraulein  can  do  nothing  wrong,'*  he 
said.  "It  is  a  matter  of  an  hour's  delay,  that 
is  all.  It  may  not  be  too  late." 

Monia  Reiff,  from  the  next  room,  called  loudly 
for  more  coffee.  The  sulky  Hungarian  brought 
it  without  a  glance  in  their  direction. 

"Too  late  for  what?" 

"Fraulein,  if  I  may  trouble  you  —  but 
glance  from  the  window  to  the  street  below. 
It  is  of  an  urgency,  or  I  —  Please,  Fraulein!" 

Harmony  glanced  down  into  the  half-light 
of  the  street.  Georgiev,  behind  her,  watched  her, 
breathless,  expectant.  Harmony  drew  in  her 
head. 

"Only  a  man  in  a  green  hat,"  she  said.  "And 
down  the  street  a  group  of  soldiers." 

"Ah!"4 

The  situation  dawned  on  the  girl  then,  at 
least  partially. 

"They  are  coming  for  you?" 

"It  is  possible.  But  there  are  many  soldiers 
in  Vienna." 

"And  I  with  the  pigeon  —  Oh,  it 's  too  horri- 
340 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

ble!  Herr  Georgiev,  stay  here  in  this  room. 
Lock  the  door.  Monia  will  say  that  it  is  mine  - 

"Ah  no,  Fraulein!  It  is  quite  hopeless.  Nor 
is  it  a  matter  of  the  pigeon.  It  is  war,  Fraulein. 
Do  not  distress  yourself.  It  is  but  a  matter  of 
-  imprisonment." 

"There  must  be  something  I  can  do,"  des 
perately.  "I  hear  them  below.  Is  there  no  way 
to  the  roof,  no  escape?" 

"None,  Fraulein.  It  was  an  oversight.  War 
is  not  my  game;  I  am  a  man  of  peace.  You 
have  been  very  kind  to  me,  Fraulein.  I  thank 

you." 

:<You  are  not  going  down!" 

"Pardon,  but  it  is  better  so.  Soldiers  they 
are  of  the  provinces  mostly,  and  not  for  a  lady 
to  confront." 

"They  are  coming  up!" 

He  listened.  The  clank  of  scabbards  against 
the  stone  stairs  was  unmistakable.  The  little 
Georgiev  straightened,  threw  out  his  chest, 
turned  to  descend,  faltered,  came  back  a  step 
or  two. 

His  small  black  eyes  were  fixed  on  Harmony's 
face. 

"Fraulein,"  he  said  huskily,  "you  are  very 
lovely.  I  carry  always  in  my  heart  your  image. 
Always  so  long  as  I  live.  Adieu." 

He  drew  his  heels  together,  gave  a  stiff  little 
341 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

bow  and  was  gone  down  the  staircase.  Har 
mony  was  frightened,  stricken.  She  collapsed 
in  a  heap  on  the  floor  of  her  room,  her  fingers 
in  her  ears.  But  she  need  not  have  feared.  The 
little  Georgiev  made  no  protest,  submitted  to 
the  inevitable  like  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier, 
went  out  of  her  life,  indeed,  as  unobtrusively 
as  he  had  entered  it. 

The  carrier  pigeon  preened  itself  comfort 
ably  on  the  edge  of  the  washstand.  Harmony 
ceased  her  hysterical  crying  at  last  and  pon 
dered  what  was  best  to  do.  Monia  was  still 
breakfasting  so  incredibly  brief  are  great  mo 
ments.  After  a  little  thought  Harmony  wrote 
a  tiny  message,  English,  German,  and  French, 
and  inclosed  it  in  the  brass  tube. 

"The  Herr  Georgiev  has  been  arrested," 
she  wrote.  An  hour  later  the  carrier  rose  lazily 
from  the  window-sill,  flapped  its  way  over  the 
church  roof  and  disappeared,  like  Georgiev, 
out  of  her  life.  Grim-visaged  war  had  touched 
her  and  passed  on. 

The  incident  was  not  entirely  closed,  how 
ever.  A  search  of  the  building  followed  the 
capture  of  the  little  spy.  Protesting  tenants  were 
turned  out,  beds  were  dismantled,  closets 
searched,  walls  sounded  for  hidden  hollows. 
In  one  room  on  Harmony's  floor  was  found 
stored  a  quantity  of  ammunition. 

342 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

It  was  when  the  three  men  who  had  conducted 
the  search  had  finished,  when  the  boxes  of  am 
munition  had  been  gathered  in  the  hall,  and  the 
chattering  sewing-girls  had  gone  back  to  work, 
that  Harmony,  on  her  way  to  her  dismantled 
room,  passed  through  the  upper  passage. 

She  glanced  down  the  staircase  where  little 
Georgiev  had  so  manfully  descended. 

"I  carry  always  in  my  heart  your  image. 
Always  so  long  as  I  live/* 

The  clatter  of  soldiers  on  their  way  down  to 
the  street  came  to  her  ears;  the  soft  cooing  of 
the  pigeons,  the  whirr  of  sewing-machines  from 
the  workroom.  The  incident  was  closed,  except 
for  the  heap  of  ammunition  boxes  on  the  land 
ing,  guarded  by  an  impassive  soldier. 

Harmony  glanced  at  him.  He  was  eying 
her  steadily,  thumbs  in,  heels  in,  toes  out, 
chest  out.  Harmony  put  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

"You!"  she  said. 

The  conversation  of  a  sentry,  save  on  a  holi 
day  is,  "Yea,  yea,"  and  "Nay,  nay." 

"Yes,  Fraulein." 

Harmony  put  her  hands  together,  a  little 
gesture  of  appeal,  infinitely  touching. 

:<You  will  not  say  that  you  have  found,  have 
seen  me?" 

"No,  Fraulein." 

It  was  in  Harmony's  mind  to  ask  all  her 
343 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

hungry  heart  craved  to  learn  —  of  Peter,  of 
Jimmy,  of  the  Portier,  of  anything  that  be 
longed  to  the  old  life  in  the  Siebensternstrasse. 
But  there  was  no  time.  The  sentry's  impassive 
face  became  rigid;  he  looked  through  her,  not 
at  her.  Harmony  turned. 

The  man  in  the  green  hat  was  coming  up  the 
staircase.  There  was  no  further  chance  to  ques 
tion.  The  sentry  was  set  to  carrying  the  boxes 
down  the  staircase. 

Full  morning  now,  with  the  winter  sun  shin 
ing  on  the  beggars  in  the  market,  on  the  crowds 
in  the  parks,  on  the  flower  sellers  in  the  Ste- 
phansplatz;  shining  on  Harmony's  golden  head 
as  she  bent  over  a  bit  of  chiffon,  on  the  old 
milkwoman  carrying  up  the  whitewashed  stair 
case  her  heavy  cans  of  milk;  on  the  carrier  pigeon 
winging  its  way  to  the  south;  beating  in  through 
bars  to  the  exalted  face  of  Herr  Georgiev; 
resting  on  Peter's  drooping  shoulders,  on  the 
neglected  mice  and  the  wooden  soldier,  on  the 
closed  eyes  of  a  sick  child  —  the  worshiped 
sun,  peering  forth  —  the  golden  window  of  the 
East. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

JIMMY  was  dying.  Peter,  fighting  hard, 
was  beaten  at  last.  All  through  the  night 
he  had  felt  it;  during  the  hours  before  the 
dawn  there  had  been  times  when  the  small 
pulse  wavered,  flickered,  almost  ceased.  With 
the  daylight  there  had  been  a  trifle  of  recovery, 
enough  for  a  bit  of  hope,  enough  to  make  harder 
Peter's  acceptance  of  the  inevitable. 

The  boy  was  very  happy,  quite  content  and 
comfortable.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  he 
smiled  at  Peter,  and  Peter,  gray  of  face,  smiled 
back.  Peter  died  many  deaths  that  night. 

At  daylight  Jimmy  fell  into  a  sleep  that  was 
really  stupor.  Marie,  creeping  to  the  door  in 
the  faint  dawn,  found  the  boy  apparently 
asleep  and  Peter  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed. 
He  raised  his  head  at  her  footstep  and  the  girl 
was  startled  at  the  suffering  in  his  face.  He 
motioned  her  back.^ 

"But  you  must  have  a  little  sleep,  Peter." 

"No.  I'll  stay  until-  Go  back  to  bed.  It 
is  very  early." 

Peter  had  not  been  able  after  all  to  secure  the 
Nurse  Elisabet,  and  now  it  was  useless.  At 

345 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

eight  o'clock  he  let  Marie  take  his  place,  then 
he  bathed  and  dressed  and  prepared  to  face 
another  day,  perhaps  another  night.  For  the 
child's  release  came  slowly.  He  tried  to  eat 
breakfast,  but  managed  only  a  cup  of  coffee. 

Many  things  had  come  to  Peter  in  the  long 
night,  and  one  was  insistent  —  the  boy's  mother 
was  in  Vienna  and  he  was  dying  without  her. 
Peter  might  know  in  his  heart  that  he  had  done 
the  best  thing  for  the  child,  but  like  Harmony 
his  early  training  was  rising  now  to  accuse  him. 
He  had  separated  mother  and  child.  Who  was 
he  to  have  decided  the  mother's  unfitness,  to 
have  played  destiny?  How  lightly  he  had  taken 
the  lives  of  others  in  his  hand,  and  to  what 
end?  Harmony,  God  knows  where;  the  boy 
dying  without  his  mother.  Whatever  that 
mother  might  be,  her  place  that  day  was  with 
her  boy.  What  a  wreck  he  had  made  of  things! 
He  was  humbled  as  well  as  stricken,  poor  Peter ! 

In  the  morning  he  sent  a  note  to  McLean, 
asking  him  to  try  to  trace  the  mother  and  in 
closing  the  music-hall  clipping  and  the  letter. 
The  letter,  signed  only  "Mamma,"  was  not 
helpful.  The  clipping  might  prove  valuable. 

"And  for  Heaven's  sake  be  quick,"  wrote 
Peter.  "This  is  a  matter  of  hours.  I  meant  well, 
but  I  've  done  a  terrible  thing.  Bring  her,  Mac, 
no  matter  what  she  is  or  where  you  find  her." 

346 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  Portier  carried  the  note.  When  he  came 
up  to  get  it  he  brought  in  his  pocket  a  small 
rabbit  and  a  lettuce  leaf.  Never  before  had  the 
combination  failed  to  arouse  and  amuse  the 
boy.  He  carried  the  rabbit  down  again  sorrow 
fully.  "He  saw  it  not,"  he  reported  sadly  to 
his  wife.  "  Be  off  to  the  church  while  I  deliver 
this  letter.  And  this  rabbit  we  will  not  cook, 
but  keep  in  remembrance." 

At  eleven  o'clock  Marie  called  Peter,  who  was 
asleep  on  the  horsehair  sofa. 

"He  asks  for  you." 

Peter  was  instantly  awake  and  on  his  feet. 
The  boy's  eyes  were  open  and  fixed  on  him.  , 

"Is  it  another  day?"  he  asked. 

''Yes,  boy;  another  morning." 

"I  am  cold,  Peter." 

They  blanketed  him,  although  the  room  was 
warm.  From  where  he  lay  he  could  see  the 
mice.  He  watched  them  for  a  moment.  Poor 
Peter,  very  humble,  found  himself  wondering 
in  how  many  ways  he  had  been  remiss.  To  see 
this  small  soul  launched  into  eternity  without 
a  foreword,  without  a  bit  of  light  for  the  journey ! 
Peter's  religion  had  been  one  of  life  and  living, 
not  of  creed. 

Marie,  bringing  jugs  of  hot  water,  bent  over 
Peter. 

"He  knows,  poor  little  one!'*  she  whispered. 
347 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

And  so,  indeed,  it  would  seem.  The  boy, 
revived  by  a  spoonful  or  two  of  broth,  asked 
to  have  the  two  tame  mice  on  the  bed.  Peter, 
opening  the  cage,  found  one  dead,  very  stiff 
and  stark.  The  catastrophe  he  kept  from  the 
boy. 

"One  is  sick,  Jimmy  boy,"  he  said,  and  placed 
the  mate,  forlorn  and  shivering,  on  the  pillow. 
After  a  minute :  — 

"If  the  sick  one  dies  will  it  go  to  heaven?" 

"Yes,  honey,  I  think  so." 

The  boy  was  silent  for  a  time.  Thinking  was 
easier  than  speech.  His  mind  too  worked  slowly. 
It  was  after  a  pause,  while  he  lay  there  with 
closed  eyes,  that  Peter  saw  two  tears  slip  from 
under  his  long  lashes.  Peter  bent  over  and  wiped 
them  away,  a  great  ache  in  his  heart. 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"I'm  afraid  —  it's  going  to  die!" 

"Would  that  be  so  terrible,  Jimmy  boy?" 
asked  Peter  gently.  "To  go  to  heaven,  where 
there  is  no  more  death  or  dying,  where  it  is 
always  summer  and  the  sun  always  shines?" 

No  reply  for  a  moment.  The  little  mouse  sat 
up  on  the  pillow  and  rubbed  its  nose  with  a 
pinkish  paw.  The  baby  mice  in  the  cage  nuz 
zled  their  dead  mother. 

"Is  there  grass?" 

"Yes  —  soft  green  grass." 
348 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"  Do  —  boys  in  heaven  —  go  in  their  bare 
feet?"  Ah,  small  mind  and  heart,  so  terrified 
and  yet  so  curious ! 

"Indeed,  yes."  And  there  on  his  knees  beside 
the  white  bed  Peter  painted  such  a  heaven  as 
no  theologue  has  ever  had  the  humanity  to 
paint  —  a  heaven  of  babbling  brooks  and 
laughing,  playing  children,  a  heaven  of  dear 
departed  puppies  and  resurrected  birds,  of 
friendly  deer,  of  trees  in  fruit,  of  speckled  fish 
in  bright  rivers.  Painted  his  heaven  with  smil 
ing  eyes  and  death  in  his  heart,  a  child's  heaven 
of  games  and  friendly  Indians,  of  sunlight  and 
rain,  sweet  sleep  and  brisk  awakening. 

The  boy  listened.  He  was  silent  when  Peter 
had  finished.  Speech  was  increasingly  an  effort. 

"I  should  —  like  —  to  go  there,"  he  whis 
pered  at  last. 

He  did  not  speak  again  during  all  the  long 
afternoon,  but  just  at  dusk  he  roused  again. 

"I  would  like  —  to  see  —  the  sentry,"  he 
said  with  difficulty. 

And  so  again,  and  for  the  last  time,  Rosa's 
soldier  from  Salzburg  with  one  lung. 

Through  all  that  long  day,  then,  Harmony 
sat  over  her  work,  unaccustomed  muscles  ach 
ing,  the  whirring  machines  in  her  ears.  Monia, 
upset  over  the  morning's  excitement,  was  irri- 

349 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

table  and  unreasonable.  The  gold-tissue  cos 
tume  had  come  back  from  Le  Grande  with  a 
complaint.  Below  in  the  courtyard  all  day 
curious  groups  stood  gaping  up  the  staircase, 
where  the  morning  had  seen  such  occurrences. 

At  the  noon  hour,  while  the  girls  heated  soup 
and  carried  in  pails  of  salad  from  the  corner 
restaurant,  Harmony  had  fallen  into  the  way  of 
playing  for  them.  To  the  music-loving  Viennese 
girls  this  was  the  hour  of  the  day.  To  sit  back, 
soup  bowl  on  knee,  the  machines  silent,  Monia 
quarreling  in  the  kitchen  with  the  Hungarian 
servant,  and  while  the  pigeons  ate  crusts  on  the 
window-sills,  to  hear  this  American  girl  play 
such  music  as  was  played  at  the  opera,  her 
slim  figure  swaying,  her  whole  beautiful  face 
and  body  glowing  with  the  melody  she  made, 
the  girls  found  the  situation  piquant,  altogether 
delightful.  Although  she  did  not  suspect  it, 
many  rumors  were  rife  about  Harmony  in  the 
workroom.  She  was  not  of  the  people,  they 
said  —  the  daughter  of  a  great  American,  of 
course,  run  away  to  escape  a  loveless  marriage. 
This  was  borne  out  by  the  report  of  one  of 
them  who  had  glimpsed  the  silk  petticoat. 
It  was  rumored  also  that  she  wore  no  chemise, 
but  instead  an  infinitely  coquettish  series  of 
lace  and  nainsook  garments  —  of  a  fineness ! 

Harmony  played  for  them  that  day,  played, 
350 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

perhaps,  as  she  had  not  played  since  the  day 
she  had  moved  the  master  to  tears,  played  to 
Peter  as  she  had  seen  him  at  the  window,  to 
Jimmy,  to  the  little  Georgiev  as  he  went  down 
the  staircase.  And  finally  with  a  choke  in  her 
throat  to  the  little  mother  back  home,  so  hope 
ful,  so  ignorant. 

In  the  evening,  as  was  her  custom,  she  took 
the  one  real  meal  of  the  day  at  the  corner 
restaurant,  going  early  to  avoid  the  crowd  and 
coming  back  quickly  through  the  winter  night. 
The  staircase  was  always  a  peril,  to  be  encoun 
tered  and  conquered  night  after  night  and  even 
in  the  daytime  not  to  be  lightly  regarded.  On 
her  way  up  this  night  she  heard  steps  ahead,' 
heavy,  measured  steps  that  climbed  steadily 
without  pauses.  For  an  instant  Harmony 
thought  it  sounded  like  Peter's  step  and  she 
went  dizzy. 

But  it  was  not  Peter.  Standing  in  the  upper 
hall,  much  as  he  had  stood  that  morning  over 
the  ammunition  boxes,  thumbs  in,  heels  in, 
toes  out,  chest  out,  was  the  sentry. 

Harmony's  first  thought  was  of  Georgiev 
and  more  searching  of  the  building.  Then  she 
saw  that  the  sentry's  impassive  face  wore  lines  of 
trouble.  He  saluted.  "Please,  Fraulein." 

"Yes?" 

"I  have  not  told  the  Herr  Doktor."  r 
351 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  thank  you." 

"But  the  child  dies." 

"Jimmy?" 

"He  dies  all  of  last  night  and  to-day.  To 
night,  it  is,  perhaps,  but  of  moments." 

Harmony  clutched  at  the  iron  stair-rail  for 
support.  :<You  are  sure?  You  are  not  telling 
me  so  that  I  will  go  back?" 

"He  dies,  Fraulein.  The  Herr  Doktor  has 
not  slept  for  many  hours.  My  wife,  Rosa,  sits 
on  the  stair  to  see  that  none  disturb,  and  her 
cousin,  the  wife  of  the  Portier,  weeps  over  the 
stove.  Please,  Fraulein,  come  with  me." 

"When  did  you  leave  the  Siebensternstrasse?  " 

"But  now." 

"And  he  still  lives?" 

"Ja,  Fraulein,  and  asks  for  you." 

Now  suddenly  fell  away  from  the  girl  'all 
pride,  all  fear,  all  that  was  personal  and  small 
and  frightened,  before  the  reality  of  death. 
She  rose,  as  women  by  divine  gift  do  rise,  to 
the  crisis;  ceased  trembling,  got  her  hat  and  coat 
and  her  shabby  gloves  and  joined  the  sentry 
again.  Another  moment's  delay  -  -  to  secure  the 
Le  Grande's  address  from  Monia.  Then  out 
into  the  night,  Harmony  to  the  Siebenstern 
strasse,  the  tall  soldier  to  find  the  dancer  at  her 
hotel,  or  failing  that,  at  the  Ronacher  Music- 
Hail. 

352 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  took  a  taxicab  —  nothing  must  be 
spared  now  —  bribed  the  chauffeur  to  greater 
speed,  arrived  at  the  house  and  ran  across  the 
garden,  still  tearless,  up  the  stairs,  past  Rosa 
on  the  upper  flight,  and  rang  the  bell. 

Marie  admitted  her  with  only  a  little  gasp  of 
surprise.  There  was  nothing  to  warn  Peter. 
One  moment  he  sat  by  the  bed,  watch  in  hand, 
alone,  drear,  tragic-eyed.  The  next  he  had 
glanced  up,  saw  Harmony  and  went  white, 
holding  to  the  back  of  his  chair.  Their  eyes 
met,  agony  and  hope  in  them,  love  and  death, 
rapture  and  bitterness.  In  Harmony's,  plead 
ing,  promise,  something  of  doubt;  in  Peter's, 
only  yearning,  as  of  empty  arms.  Then  Har 
mony  dared  to  look  at  the  bed  and  fell  on 
her  knees  in  a  storm  of  grief  beside  it.  Peter 
bent  over  and  gently  stroked  her  hair. 

Le  Grande  was  singing;  the  boxes  were  full. 
In  the  body  of  the  immense  theater  waiters 
scurried  back  and  forward  among  the  tables. 
Everywhere  was  the  clatter  of  silver  and  steel 
on  porcelain,  the  clink  of  glasses.  Smoke  was 
everywhere  —  pipes,  cigars,  cigarettes.  Women 
smoked  between  bites  at  the  tables,  using  small 
paper  or  silver  mouthpieces,  even  a  gold  one 
shone  here  and  there.  Men  walked  up  and  down 
among  the  diners,  spraying  the  air  with  chemi- 

353 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

cals  to  clear  it.  At  a  table  just  below  the  stage 
sat  the  red-bearded  Dozent  with  the  lady  of 
the  photograph.  They  were  drinking  cheap 
native  wines  and  were  very  happy. 

From  the  height  of  his  worldly  wisdom  he  was 
explaining  the  people  to  her. 

"  In  the  box  —  don 't  stare,  Liebchen,  he 
looks  —  is  the  princeling  I  have  told  you  of. 
Roses,  of  course.  Last  night  it  was  orchids." 

"Last  night!   Were  you  here?"  He  coughed. 

"I  have  been  told,  Liebchen..  Each  night  he 
sits  there,  and  when  she  finishes  her  song  he 
rises  in  the  box,  kisses  the  flowers  and  tosses 
them  to  her." 

"Shameless!  Is  she  so  beautiful?" 

"No.   But  you  shall  see.    She  comes." 

Le  Grande  was  very  popular.  She  occupied 
the  best  place  on  the  program;  and  because 
she  sang  in  American,  which  is  not  exactly 
English  and  more  difficult  to  understand,  her 
songs  were  considered  exceedingly  risque.  As 
a  matter  ofj  fact  they  were  merely  ragtime 
melodies,  with  a  lilt  to  them  that  caught  the 
Viennese  fancy,  accustomed  to  German  senti 
mental  ditties  and  the  artificial  forms  of  grand 
opera.  And  there  was  another  reason  for  her 
success.  She  carried  with  her  a  chorus  of  a  dozen 
pickaninnies. 

In  Austria  darkies  were  as  rare  as  cats,  and 
354 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

there  were  no  cats!  So  the  little  chorus  had 
made  good.  Le  Grande  was  a  good  advertiser. 
Each  day  she  walked  in  the  Prater,  ermine  from 
head  to  foot,  and  behind  her  two  by  two  trailed 
twelve  little  Southern  darkies  in  red-velvet 
coats  and  caps,  grinning  sociably.  When  she 
drove  a  pair  sat  on  the  boot. 

Her  voice  was  strong,  not  sweet,  spoiled 
by  years  of  singing  against  dishes  and  bottles 
in  smoky  music  halls;  spoiled  by  cigarettes  and 
absinthe  and  foreign  cocktails  that  resembled 
their  American  prototypes  as  the  night  re 
sembles  the  day. 

She  wore  the  gold  dress,  decolletee,  slashed  to 
the  knee  over  rhinestone-spangled  stockings. 
And  back  of  her  trailed  the  twelve  little  darkies. 

She  sang  "Dixie,"  of  course,  and  the  "Old 
Folks  at  Home";  then  a  ragtime  medley,  with 
the  chorus  showing  rows  of  white  teeth  and 
clogging  with  all  their  short  legs.  Le  Grande 
danced  to  that,  a  whirling,  nimble  dance.  The 
little  rhinestones  on  her  stockings  flashed; 
her  opulent  bosom  quivered.  The  Dozent,  eyes 
on  the  dancer,  squeezed  his  companion's  hand. 

"I  love  thee!"  he  whispered,  rather  flushed. 

And  then  she  sang  "  Doan  ye  cry,  mah  honey." 
Her  voice,  rather  coarse  but  melodious,  lent 
itself  to  the  negro  rhythm,  the  swing  and  lilt 
of  the  lullaby.  The  little  darkies,  eyes  rolling, 

355 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

preternaturally  solemn,  linked  arms  and  swayed 
rhythmically,  right,  left,  right,  left.  The  glasses 
ceased  clinking;  sturdy  citizens  forgot  their 
steak  and  beer  for  a  moment  and  listened, 
knife  and  fork  poised.  Under  the  table  the 
Dozent's  hand  pressed  its  captive  affectionately, 
his  eyes  no  longer  on  Le  Grande,  but  on  the 
woman  across,  his  sweetheart,  she  who  would 
be  mother  of  his  children.  The  words  meant 
little  to  the  audience;  the  rich,  rolling  Southern 
lullaby  held  them  rapt :  — 

"  Doan  ye  cry,  mah  honey, 
Doan  ye  weep  no  mo', 
Mammy  's  gwine  to  hold  her  baby, 

All  de  udder  black  trash  sleepin'  on  the  flo', 
Mammy  only  lubs  her  boy." 

The  little  darkies  swayed;  the  singer  swayed, 
empty  arms  cradled. 

"  Doan  ye  cry,  mah  honey, 
Doan  ye  weep  no  mo'  —  " 

She  picked  the  tiniest  darky  up  and  held  him, 
woolly  head  against  her  breast,  and  crooned 
to  him,  rocking  on  her  jeweled  heels.  The  crowd 
applauded ;  the  man  in  the  box  kissed  his  flowers 
and  flung  them.  Glasses  and  dishes  clinked 
again. 

The  Dozent  bent  across  the  table. 

"Some  day  -     '  he  said. 

The  girl  blushed. 

356 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Le  Grande  made  her  way  into  the  wings, 
surrounded  by  her  little  troupe.  A  motherly 
colored  woman  took  them,  shooed  them  off, 
rounded  them  up  like  a  flock  of  chickens. 

And  there  in  the  wings,  grimly  impassive, 
stood  a  private  soldier  of  the  old  Franz  Josef, 
blocking  the  door  to  her  dressing  room.  For 
a  moment  gold  dress  and  dark  blue-gray  uni 
form  fronted  each  other.  Then  the  sentry 
touched  his  cap. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "the  child  is  in  the 
Siebensternstrasse  and  to-night  he  dies." 

"What  child?"  Her  arms  were  full  of  flowers. 

"The  child  from  the  hospital.  Please  to  make 
haste." 

Jimmy  died  an  hour  after  midnight,  quite 
peacefully,  died  with  one  hand  in  Harmony's 
and  one  between  Peter's  two  big  ones. 

Toward  the  last  he  called  Peter  "Daddy" 
and  asked  for  a  drink.  His  eyes,  moving  slowly 
round  the  room,  passed  without  notice  the  gray- 
faced  woman  in  a  gold  dress  who  stood  staring 
down  at  him,  rested  a  moment  on  the  cage  of 
mice,  came  to  a  stop  in  the  doorway,  where 
stood  the  sentry,  white  and  weary,  but  refusing 
rest. 

It  was  Harmony  who  divined  the  child's  un 
spoken  wish. 

357 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars  ^ 

"The  manual?"  she  whispered. 

The  boy  nodded.  And  so  just  inside  the  door 
of  the  bedroom  across  from  the  old  salon  of 
Maria  Theresa  the  sentry,  with  sad  eyes  but 
no  lack  of  vigor,  went  again  through  the  Aus 
trian  manual  of  arms,  and  because  he  had  no 
carbine  he  used  Peter's  old  walking-stick. 

When  it  was  finished  the  boy  smiled  faintly, 
tried  to  salute,  lay  still. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

PETER  was  going  back  to  America  and  still ' 
he  had  not  told  Harmony  he  loved  her.  It 
was  necessary  that  he  go  back.  His  money  had 
about  given  out,  and  there  was  no  way  to  get 
more  save  by  earning  it.  The  drain  of  Jimmy's 
illness,  the  inevitable  expense  of  the  small  grave 
and  the  tiny  stone  Peter  had  insisted  on  buy 
ing,  had  made  retreat  his  only  course.  True, 
Le  Grande  had  wished  to  defray  all  expenses, 
but  Peter  was  inexorable.  No  money  earned  as 
the  dancer  earned  hers  should  purchase  peaceful 
rest  for  the  loved  little  body.  And  after  seeing 
Peter's  eyes  the  dancer  had  not  insisted. 

A  week  had  seen  many  changes.  Marie  was 
gone.  After  a  conference  between  Stewart  and 
Peter  that  had  been  decided  on.  Stewart  raised 
the  money  somehow,  and  Peter  saw  her  off,  pal 
pitant  and  eager,  with  the  pin  he  had  sent  her 
to  Semmering  at  her  throat.  She  kissed  Peter 
on  the  cheek  in  the  station,  rather  to  his  em 
barrassment.  From  the  lowered  window,  as 
the  train  pulled  out,  she  waved  a  moist  hand 
kerchief. 

'  3/>0 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  shall  be  very  good,"  she  promised  him. 
The  last  words  he  heard  above  the  grinding  of 
the  train  were  her  cheery:  "To  America!" 

Peter  was  living  alone  in  the  Street  of  Seven 
Stars,  getting  food  where  he  might  happen  to 
be,  buying  a  little  now  and  then  from  the 
delicatessen  shop  across  the  street.  For  Har 
mony  had  gone  back  to  the  house  in  the  Woll- 
badgasse.  She  had  stayed  until  all  was  over 
and  until  Marie's  small  preparations  for  de 
parture  were  over.  Then,  while  Peter  was  at 
the  station,  she  slipped  away  again.  But  this 
time  she  left  her  address.  She  wrote:  — 

"You  will  come  to  visit  me,  dear  Peter,  be 
cause  I  was  so  lonely  before  and  that  is  un 
necessary  now.  But  you  must  know  that  I 
cannot  stay  in  the  Siebensternstrasse.  We 
have  each  our  own  fight  to  make,  and  you  have 
been  trying  to  fight  for  us  all,  for  Marie,  for 
dear  little  Jimmy,  for  me.  You  must  get  back 
to  work  now;  you  have  lost  so  much  time. 
And  I  am  managing  well.  The  Frau  Professor 
is  back  and  will  take  an  evening  lesson,  and  soon 
I  shall  have  more  money  from  Fraulein  Reiff. 
You  can  see  how  things  are  looking  up  for  me. 
In  a  few  months  I  shall  be  able  to  renew  my 
music  lessons.  And  then,  Peter,  -  -  the  career ! 

"HARMONY."    j 
360 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Her  address  was  beneath. 

Peter  had  suffered  much.  He  was  thinner, 
grayer,  and  as  he  stood  with  the  letter  in  his 
hand  he  felt  that  Harmony  was  right.  He  could 
offer  her  nothing  but  his  shabby  self,  his  prob 
lematic  future.  Perhaps,  surely,  everything 
would  have  been  settled,  without  reason,  had 
he  only  once  taken  the  girl  in  his  arms,  told 
her  she  was  the  breath  of  life  itself  to  him. 
But  adversity,  while  it  had  roused  his  fighting 
spirit  in  everything  else,  had  sapped  his  con 
fidence. 

He  had  found  the  letter  on  his  dressing- 
table,  and  he  found  himself  confronting  his 
image  over  it,  a  tall,  stooping  figure,  a 
tired,  lined  face,  a  coat  that  bore  the  impress 
of  many  days  with  a  sick  child's  head  against 
its  breast. 

So  it  was  over.  She  had  come  back  and  gone 
again,  and  this  time  he  must  let  her  go.  Who 
was  he  to  detain  her?  She  would  carry  her 
self  on  to  success,  he  felt;  she  had  youth,  hope, 
beauty  and  ability.  And  she  had  proved  the 
thing  he  had  not  dared  to  believe,  that  she 
could  take  care  of  herself  in  the  old  city.  Only 
—  to  go  away  and  leave  her  there ! 

McLean  would  remain.  No  doubt  he  already 
had  Harmony's  address  in  the  Wollbadgasse. 
Peter  was  not  subtle,  no  psychologist,  but  he 

361 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

had  seen  during  the  last  few  days  how  the  boy 
watched  Harmony's  every  word,  every  gesture. 
And,  perhaps,  when  loneliness  and  hard  work 
began  to  tell  on  her,  McLean's  devotion  would 
win  its  reward.  McLean's  devotion,  with  all 
that  it  meant,  the  lessons  again,  community 
of  taste,  their  common  youth!  Peter  felt  old, 
very  tired. 

Nevertheless  he  went  that  night  to  the 
Wollbadgasse.  He  sent  his  gray  suit  to  the 
Portier's  wife  to  be  pressed,  and  getting  out 
his  surgical  case,  as  he  had  once  before  in  the 
Pension  Schwarz,  he  sewed  a  button  on  his 
overcoat,  using  the  curved  needle  and  the  catgut 
and  working  with  surgeon's  precision.  Then, 
still  working  very  carefully,  he  trimmed  the 
edges  of  graying  hair  over  his  ears,  trimmed 
his  cuffs,  trimmed  his  best  silk  tie,  now  almost 
hopeless.  He  blacked  his  shoes,  and  the  suit 
not  coming,  he  donned  his  dressing-gown  and 
went  into  Jimmy's  room  to  feed  the  mice. 
Peter  stood  a  moment  beside  the  smooth 
white  bed  with  his  face  working.  The  wooden 
sentry  still  stood  on  the  bedside  table. 

It  was  in  Peter's  mind  to  take  the  mice  to 
Harmony,  confess  his  defeat  and  approaching 
retreat,  and  ask  her  to  care  for  them.  Then  he 
decided  against  this  palpable  appeal  for  sym 
pathy,  elected  to  go  empty-handed  and  dis- 

362 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

cover  merely  how  comfortable  she  was  or  was 
not.  When  the  time  came  he  would  slip  out 
of  her  life,  sending  her  a  letter  and  leaving 
McLean  on  guard. 

Harmony  was  at  home.  Peter  climbed  the 
dark  staircase  —  where  Harmony  had  met  the 
little  Georgiev,  and  where  he  had  gone  down 
to  his  death  —  climbed  steadily,  but  without 
his  usual  elasticity.  The  place  appalled  him  — 
its  gloom,  its  dinginess,  its  somber  quiet.  In 
the  daylight,  with  the  pigeons  on  the  sills  and 
the  morning  sunlight  printing  the  cross  of  the 
church  steeple  on  the  whitewashed  wall,  it 
was  peaceful,  cloisterlike,  with  landings  that 
were  crypts.  But  at  night  it  was  almost  terri 
fying,  that  staircase. 

Harmony  was  playing.  Peter  heard  her 
when  he  reached  the  upper  landing,  playing  a 
sad  little  strain  that  gripped  his  heart.  He 
waited  outside  before  ringing,  heard  her  begin 
something  determinedly  cheerful,  falter,  cease 
altogether.  Peter  rang. 

Harmony  herself  admitted  him.  Perhaps  — 
oh,  certainly  she  had  expected  him !  It  would  be 
Peter,  of  course,  to  come  and  see  how  she  was 
getting  on,  how  she  was  housed.  She  held  out 
her  hand  and  Peter  took  it.  Still  no  words,  only 
a  half  smile  from  her  and  no  smile  at  all  from 
Peter,  but  his  heart  in  his  eyes. 

363 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  hoped  you  would  come,  Peter.  We  may 
have  the  reception  room." 

'You    knew    I    would    come,'*    said    Peter. 
"The  reception  room?" 

"Where  customers  wait."  She  still  carried 
her  violin,  and  slipped  back  to  her  room  to 
put  it  away.  Peter  had  a  glimpse  of  its  poverty 
and  its  meagerness.  He  drew  a  long  breath. 

Monia  was  at  the  opera,  and  the  Hungarian 
sat  in  the  kitchen  knitting  a  stocking.  The 
reception  room  was  warm  from  the  day's  fire, 
and  in  order.  All  the  pms  and  scraps  of  the  day 
had  been  swept  up,  and  the  portieres  that  made 
fitting-rooms  of  the  corners  were  pushed  back. 
Peter  saw  only  a  big  room  with  empty  corners, 
and  that  at  a  glance.  His  eyes  were  Harmony's. 

He  sat  down  awkwardly  on  a  stiff  chair; 
Harmony  on  a  velvet  settee.  They  were  sud 
denly  two  strangers  meeting  for  the  first  time. 
In  the  squalor  of  the  Pension  Schwarz,  in  the 
comfortable  intimacies  of  the  Street  of  Seven 
Stars,  they  had  been  easy,  unconstrained.  Now 
suddenly  Peter  was  tongue-tied.  Only  one  thing 
in  him  clamored  for  utterance,  and  that  he 
sternly  silenced. 

"I--I  could  not  stay  there,  Peter.  You 
understood?" 

"No.   Of  course,  I  understood." 

"You  were  not  angry?" 
364 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Why  should  I  be  angry?  You  came,  like 
an  angel  of  light,  when  I  needed  you.  Only,  of 
course,  — " 

"Yes?" 

"I  '11  not  say  that,  I  think." 

"Please  say  it,  Peter!" 

Peter  writhed;  looked  everywhere  but  at 
her. 

"Please,  Peter.  You  said  I  always  came  when 
you  needed  me,  only  — " 

"Only  —  I  always  need  you!"  Peter,  Peter! 

"Not  always,  I  think.  Of  course,  when  one 
is  in  trouble  one  needs  a  woman;  but  — " 

"  Well,  of  course  —  but  —  I  'm  generally  in 
trouble,  Harry  dear." 

Frightfully  ashamed  of  himself  by  that  time 
was  Peter,  ashamed  of  his  weakness.  He  sought 
to  give  a  casual  air  to  the  speech  by  stooping 
for  a  neglected  pin  on  the  carpet.  By  the  time 
he  had  stuck  it  in  his  lapel  he  had  saved  his 
mental  forces  from  the  rout  of  Harmony's  eyes. 

His  next  speech  he  made  to  the  center  table, 
and  missed  a  most  delectable  look  in  the  afore 
said  eyes. 

"I  did  n't  come  to  be  silly,"  he  said  to  the 
table.  "I  hate  people  who  whine,  and  I've  got 
into  a  damnable  habit  of  being  sorry  for  myself! 
It 's  to  laugh,  is  n't  it,  a  great,  hulking  carcass 
like  me,  to  be  - 

365 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Peter,"  said  Harmony  softly,  "aren't  you 
going  to  look  at  me?" 

"I  'm  afraid." 

"That's  cowardice.  And  I've  fixed  my  hair 
a  new  way.  Do  you  like  it?" 

"Splendid,"  said  Peter  to  the  center  table. 

"You  did  n't  look!" 

The  rout  of  Harmony's  eyes  was  supplemented 
by  the  rout  of  Harmony's  hair.  Peter,  goaded, 
got  up  and  walked  about.  Harmony  was  half 
exasperated;  she  would  have  boxed  Peter's 
ears  with  a  tender  hand  had  she  dared. 

His  hands  thrust  savagely  in  his  pockets, 
Peter  turned  and  faced  her  at  last. 

"First  of  all,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  back  to 
America,  Harmony.  I  've  got  all  I  can  get  here, 
all  I  came  for  — "  He  stopped,  seeing  her  face. 
"Well,  of  course,  that's  not  true,  I  haven't. 
But  I  'm  going  back,  anyhow.  You  need  n't 
look  so  stricken :  I  have  n't  lost  my  chance. 
I'll  come  back  sometime  again  and  finish,  when 
I've  earned  enough  to  do  it." 

"You  will  never  come  back,  Peter.  You  have 
spent  all  your  money  on  others,  and  now  you 
are  going  back  just  where  you  were,  and  —  you 
are  leaving  me  here  alone!" 

"You  are  alone,  anyhow,"  said  Peter,  "mak 
ing  your  own  way  and  getting  along.  And 
McLean  will  be  here." 

360 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Are  you  turning  me  over  to  him?"  • 

No  reply.    Peter  was  pacing  the  floor. 

"Peter!" 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"Do  you  remember  the  night  in  Anna's  room 
at  the  Schwarz  when  you  proposed  to  me?" 

No  reply.   Peter  found  another  pin. 

"And  that  night  in  the  old  lodge  when  you 
proposed  to  me  again?" 

Peter  turned  and  looked  at  her,  at  her  slender, 
swaying  young  figure,  her  luminous  eyes,  her 
parted,  childish  lips. 

"Peter,  I  want  you  to  —  to  ask  me  again." 

"No!" 

"Why?" 

"Now,  listen  to  me,  Harmony.  You're  sorry 
for  me,  that's  all;  I  don't  want  to  be  pitied. 
You  stay  here  and  work.  You'll  do  big  things. 
I  had  a  talk  with  the  master  while  I  was  search 
ing  for  you,  and  he  says  you  can  do  anything. 
But  he  looked  at  me  —  and  a  sight  I  was  with 
worry  and  fright  —  and  he  warned  me  off, 
Harmony.  He  says  you  must  not  marry." 

"Old  pig!"  said  Harmony.  "I  will  marry  if 
I  please." 

Nevertheless  Peter's  refusal  and  the  master's 
speech  had  told  somewhat.  She  was  colder,  less 
vibrant.  Peter  came  to  her,  stood  close,  looking 
down  at  her. 

367 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I've  said  a  lot  I  did  n't  mean  to,"  he  said. 
"There's  only  one  thing  I  haven't  said,  I 
ought  n't  to  say  it,  dear.  I  'm  not  going  to 
marry  you  —  I  won't  have  such  a  thing  on 
my  conscience.  But  it  does  n't  hurt  a  woman 
to  know  that  a  man  loves  her.  I  love  you, 
dear.  You  're  my  heaven  and  my  earth  — 
even  my  God,  I'm  afraid.  But  /  will  not 
marry  you" 

"Not  even  if  I  ask  you  to?" 

"Not  even  then,  dear.  To  share  my  strug- 
gle-" 

"I  see,"  slowly.   "It  is  to  be  a  struggle?" 

"A  hard  fight,  Harmony.  I'm  a  pauper  prac 
tically." 

"And  what  ami?" 

"Two  poverties  don't  make  a  wealth,  even 
of  happiness,"  said  Peter  steadily.  "In  the  time 
to  come,  when  you  would  think  of  what  you 
might  have  been,  it  would  be  a  thousand  deaths 
to  me,  dear." 

"People  have  married,  women  have  married 
and  carried  on  their  work,  too,  Peter." 

"Not  your  sort  of  women  or  your  sort  of 
work.  And  not  my  sort  of  man,  Harry.  I'm 
jealous  —  jealous  of  every  one  about  you. 
It  would  have  to  be  the  music  or  me." 

"And  you  make  the  choice!"  said  Harmony 
proudly.  "Very  well,  Peter,  I  shall  do  as  you 

3G8 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

say.    But  I  think  it  is  a  very  curious  sort  of 
love." 

"I  wonder,"  Peter  cried,  "if  you  realize 
what  love  it  is  that  loves  you  enough  to  give 
you  up." 

:( You  have  not  asked  me  if  I  care,  Peter." 

Peter  looked  at  her.  She  was  very  near  to 
tears,  very  sad,  very  beautiful. 

"I'm  afraid  to  ask,"  said  Peter,  and  picking 
up  his  hat  he  made  for  the  door.  There  he 
turned,  looked  back,  was  lost. 

"My  sweetest  heart!"  he  cried,  and  took  her 
in  his  hungry  arms.  But  even  then,  with  her 
arms  about  his  neck  at  last,  with  her  slender 
body  held  to  him,  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
his  lips  to  her  soft  throat,  Peter  put  her  from 
him  as  a  starving  man  might  put  away  food. 

He  held  her  off  and  looked  at  her. 

"I'm  a  fool  and  a  weakling,"  he  said  gravely. 
"I  love  you  so  much  that  I  would  sacrifice  you. 
You  are  very  lovely,  my  girl,  my  girl!  As  long 
as  I  live  I  shall  carry  your  image  in  my  heart." 

Ah,  what  the  little  Georgiev  had  said  on  his 
way  to  the  death  that  waited  down  the  stair 
case.  Peter,  not  daring  to  lookaat  her  again, 
put  away  her  detaining  hand,  squared  his  shoul 
ders,  went  to  the  door. 

"Good-bye,  Harmony,"  he  said  steadily. 
"Always  in  my  heart!" 

3C9 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Very  near  the  end  now:  the  little  Marie  on 
the  way  to  America,  with  the  recording  angel 
opening  a  new  page  in  life's  ledger  for  her  and 
a  red-ink  line  erasing  the  other;  with  Jimmy  and 
his  daddy  wandering  through  the  heaven  of 
friendly  adventure  and  green  fields,  hand  in 
hand;  with  the  carrier  resting  after  its  labors  in 
the  pigeon  house  by  the  rose-fields  of  Sofia; 
with  the  sentry  casting  martial  shadows  through 
the  barred  windows  of  the  hospital;  and  the 
little  Georgiev,  about  to  die,  dividing  his  heart, 
as  a  heritage,  between  his  country  and  a  young 
girl. 

Very  near  the  end,  with  the  morning  light 
of  the  next  day  shining  into  the  salon  of  Maria 
Theresa  and  on  to  Peter's  open  trunk  and  shabby 
wardrobe  spread  over  chairs.  An  end  of  trunks 
and  departure,  as  was  the  beginning. 

Early  morning  at  the  Gottesacker,  or  God's 
acre,  whence  little  Jimmy  had  started  on  his 
comfortable  journey.  Early  morning  on  the 
frost-covered  grass,  the  frozen  roads,  the  snap 
and  sparkle  of  the  Donau.  Harmony  had  taken 
her  problem  there,  in  the  early  hour  before 
Monia  would  summon  her  to  labor  —  took  her 
problem  and  found  her  answer. 

The  great  cemetery  was  still  and  deserted. 
Harmony,  none  too  warmly  clad,  walked  briskly, 
a  bunch  of  flowers  in  oiled  paper  against  the 

370 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

cold.  Already  the  air  carried  a  hint  of  spring; 
there  was  a  feeling  of  resurrection  and  promise. 
The  dead  earth  felt  alive  under-foot. 

Harmony  knelt  by  the  grave  and  said  the 
little  prayer  the  child  had  repeated  at  night 
and  morning.  And,  because  he  had  loved  it, 
with  some  vague  feeling  of  giving  him  comfort, 
she  recited  the  little  verse :  — 

"  Ah  well!    For  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes: 
And  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away." 

When  she  looked  up  Le  Grande  was  standing 
beside  her. 

There  was  no  scene,  hardly  any  tears.  She 
had  brought  out  a  great  bunch  of  roses  that 
bore  only  too  clearly  the  stamp  of  whence  they 
came.  One  of  the  pickaninnies  had  carried  the 
box  and  stood  impassively  by,  gazing  at  Har 
mony. 

Le  Grande  placed  her  flowers  on  the  grave. 
They  almost  covered  it,  quite  eclipsed  Har 
mony's. 

"I  come  here  every  morning,"  she  said  simply. 

She  had  a  cab  waiting,  and  offered  to  drive 
Harmony  back  to  the  city.  Her  quiet  almost 
irritated  Harmony,  until  she  had  looked  once 
into  the  woman's  eyes.  After  that  she  knew. 
It  was  on  the  drive  back,  with  the  little  darky 

371 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

on  the  box  beside  the  driver,  that  Harmony 
got  her  answer. 

Le  Grande  put  a  hand  over  Harmony's. 

"I  tried  to  tell  you  before  how  good  I  know 
you  were  to  him." 

"We  loved  him." 

"And  I  resented  it.  But  Dr.  Byrne  was  right 
—  I  was  not  a  fit  person  to  —  to  have  him." 

"It  was  not  that  —  not  only  that  — " 

"Did  he  ever  ask  for  me?  But  of  course 
not." 

"No,  he  had  no  remembrance." 

Silence  for  a  moment.  The  loose  window's  of 
the  cab  clattered. 

"I  loved  him  very  much  when  he  came," 
said  Le  Grande,  "although  I  did  not  want  him. 
I  had  been  told  I  could  have  a  career  on  the 
stage.  Ah,  my  dear,  I  chose  the  career  —  and 
look  at  me!  What  have  I?  A  grave  in  the 
cemetery  back  there,  and  on  it  roses  sent  me 
by  a  man  I  loathe !  If  I  could  live  it  over  again ! " 

The  answer  was  very  close  now :  —  i- 

" Would  you  stay  at  home?" 

"Who  knows,  I  being  I?  And  my  husband 
did  not  love  me.  It  was  the  boy  always.  There 
is  only  one  thing  worth  while  —  the  love  of  a 
good  man.  I  have  lived,  lived  hard.  And  I 
know." 

"But  supposing  that  one  has  real  ability  — 
372 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

I  mean  some  achievement  already,  and  a  prom 
ise—" 

Le  Grande  turned  and  looked  at  Harmony 
shrewdly. 

"I  see.   You  are  a  musician,  I  believe?" 

"Yes." 

"And  — it  is  Dr.  Byrne?" 

"Yes." 

Le  Grande  bent  forward  earnestly. 

"My  child,"  she  said,  "if  one  man  in  all  the 
world  looked  at  me  as  your  doctor  looks  at  you, 
I  —  I  would  be  a  better  woman." 

"And  my  music?" 

"Play  for  your  children,  as  you  played  for 
my  little  boy." 

Peter  was  packing:  wTapping  medical  books 
in  old  coats,  putting  clean  collars  next  to  boots, 
folding  pajamas  and  such-like  negligible  gar 
ments  with  great  care  and  putting  in  his  dress- 
coat  in  a  roll.  His  pipes  took  time,  and  the 
wooden  sentry  he  packed  with  great  care  and 
a  bit  of  healthy  emotion.  Once  or  twice  he 
came  across  trifles  of  Harmony's,  and  he  put 
them  carefully  aside  —  the  sweater  coat,  a 
folded  handkerchief,  a  bow  she  had  worn  at 
her  throat.  The  bow  brought  back  the  night 
before  and  that  reckless  kiss  on  her  white 
throat.  Well  for  Peter  to  get  away  if  he  is  to 

373 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

keep  his  resolution,  when  the  sight  of  a  ribbon 
bow  can  bring  that  look  of  suffering  into  his 
eyes. 

The  Portier  below  was  polishing  floors,  right 
foot,  left  foot,  any  foot  at  all.  And  as  he 
polished  he  sang  in  a  throaty  tenor. 

"Kennst  du  das  Land  wo  die  Citronen 
bliihen,"  he  sang  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and 
coughed,  a  bit  of  floor  wax  having  got  into  the 
air.  The  antlers  of  the  deer  from  the  wild-game 
shop  hung  now  in  his  bedroom.  When  the  wild- 
game  seller  came  over  for  coffee  there  would  be 
a  discussion  probably.  But  were  not  the  antlers 
of  all  deer  similar? 

The  Portier's  wife  came  to  the  doorway  with 
a  cooking  fork  in  her  hand. 

"A  cab,"  she  announced,  "with  a  devil's  imp 
on  the  box.  Perhaps  it  is  that  American  dancer. 
Run  and  pretty  thyself!" 

It  was  too  late  for  more  than  an  upward 
twist  of  a  mustache.  Harmony  was  at  the  door, 
but  not  the  sad-eyed  Harmony  of  a  week  before 
or  the  undecided  and  troubled  girl  of  before 
that.  A  radiant  Harmony,  this,  who  stood  in 
the  doorway,  who  wished  them  good-morning, 
and  ran  up  the  old  staircase  with  glowing  eyes 
and  a  heart  that  leaped  and  throbbed.  A  woman 
now,  this  Harmony,  one  who  had  looked  on 
life  and  learned;  one  who  had  chosen  her  fate 

374 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  was  running  to  meet  it;  one  who  feared 
only  death,  not  life  or  anything  that  life  could 
offer. 

The  door  was  not  locked.  Perhaps  Peter  was 
not  up  —  not  dressed.  What  did  that  matter? 
What  did  anything  matter  but  Peter  himself? 

Peter,  sorting  out  lectures  on  McBurney's 
Point,  had  come  across  a  bit  of  paper  that  did 
not  belong  there,  and  was  sitting  by  his  open 
trunk,  staring  blindly  at  it :  — 

:<You  are  very  kind  to  me.  Yes,  indeed. 

"H.  W." 

Quite  the  end  now,  with  Harmony  running 
across  the  room  and  dropping  down  on  her 
knees  among  a  riot  of  garments  —  down  on 
her  knees,  with  one  arm  round  Peter's  neck, 
drawing  his  tired  head  lower  until  she  could 
kiss  him. 

"Oh,  Peter,  Peter,  dear!"  she  cried.  "I  '11 
love  you  all  my  life  if  only  you'll  love  me,  and 
never,  never  let  me  go." 

Peter  was  dazed  at  first.  He  put  his  arms 
about  her  rather  unsteadily,  because  he  had 
given  her  up  and  had  expected  to  go  through 
the  rest  of  life  empty  of  arm  and  heart.  And 
when  one  has  one's  arms  set,  as  one  may  say, 
for  loneliness  and  relinquishment  it  is  rather 

375 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

difficult  -  Ah,  but  Peter  got  the  way  of  it 
swiftly. 

"Always,"  he  said  incoherently;  "forever 
the  two  of  us.  Whatever  comes,  Harmony?" 

"Whatever  comes." 

"And  you'll  not  be  sorry?" 

"Not  if  you  love  me." 

Peter  kissed  her  on  the  eyes  very  solemnly. 

"God  helping  me,  I'll  be  good  to  you  always. 
And  I'll  always  love  you." 

He  tried  to  hold  her  away  from  him  for  a 
moment  after  that,  to  tell  her  what  she  was 
doing,  what  she  was  giving  up.  She  would  not 
be  reasoned  with. 

"I  love  you,"  was  her  answer  to  every  line. 
And  it  was  no  divided  allegiance  she  promised 
him.  "Career?  I  shall  have  a  career.  Yours!" 

"And  your  music?" 

She  colored,  held  him  closer. 

"Some  day,"  she  whispered,  "I  shall  tell 
you  about  that." 

Late  winter  morning  in  Vienna,  with  the 
school-children  hurrying  home,  the  Alserstrasse 
alive  with  humanity  —  soldiers  and  chimney 
sweeps,  housewives  and  beggars.  Before  the 
hospital  the  crowd  lines  up  along  the  curb; 
the  head  waiter  from  the  coffee-house  across 
comes  to  the  doorway  and  looks  out.  The  sentry 

376 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

in  front  of  the  hospital  ceases  pacing  and  stands 
at  attention. 

In  the  street  a  small  procession  comes  at 
the  double  quick  —  a  handful  of  troopers,  a 
black  van  with  tiny,  high-barred  windows,  more 
troopers. 

Inside  the  van  a  Bulgarian  spy  going  out  to 
death  —  a  swarthy  little  man  with  black  eyes 
and  short,  thick  hands,  going  out  like  a  gentle 
man  and  a  soldier  to  meet  the  God  of  patriots 
and  lovers. 

The  sentry,  who  was  only  a  soldier  from 
Salzburg  with  one  lung,  was  also  a  gentleman 
and  a  patriot.  He  uncovered  his  head. 


THE    END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .   S    .   A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
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